Fathomless
by Vexta
Summary: Like the ocean, change is a fact of life. Hermione Granger comes to terms with changing perceptions as she aides an old rival to solve a string of mysterious murders. Post-Hogwarts, EWE, Dramione.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** I _obviously_ own nothing. Harry Potter & cast belong to my liege, J.K. Rowling.

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue – Aftermath<strong>

Hermione Granger could not have possibly known it, but she was the direct cause of the redeemable change that had come upon Draco Malfoy following the Final Battle of Hogwarts.

He had seen her, Granger, that is. Not just saw her as she looked, but he had _seen_ her for what she was – human. She had been crouched beside Pansy Parkinson, of all people, applying a fresh bandage to the Slytherin's arm that was already beginning to pink through with the copious amounts of blood.

Draco had been sitting down on a half demolished sandstone bench at the time, ignoring the Mediwitch that was tending to a burn on his calf. As he had been sitting there, his gaze had wandered.

The sun had begun to rise behind the castle, tinting the sky with hues of purple, pink and orange. Bodies of the fallen were being lined up against the far wall, and he could see the beginnings of a makeshift medical ward being set up in the Great Hall from where he was sitting.

Destruction and debris surrounded him; the dust had not even settled yet.

The last of the Death Eaters had fled from the grounds moments after Voldemort's defeat. There were several bodies littered across the courtyard that wore flowing black robes, some even had their white bone masks at their faces. Others were beyond recognition. The air was thick with the static of recently used magic, heavy with the stench of death and keening cries of wrath or despair could still be heard ringing.

This was the aftermath of war. The picking up of the pieces left behind, absorbing the shock that _holy fucking hell, this really just happened_. The disbelieving gasps for air when you weren't sure whether you were really alive or if you were dreaming. The tending of the injured, the burying of the fallen and the courage to continue breathing when it was easier to just curl into yourself and stop existing. Because it was easier to disappear than to have to be one of the ones left behind to make sense of the destruction that war caused.

There was a small commotion and Draco lifted his head, just in time to catch Potter's eye as the Chosen One trudged past the blond Slytherin. The eye contact lasted maybe all of four seconds but entire conversations passed between them.

_I'm sorry. Please forgive me. _

_Thank you,_ Harry's eyes conveyed. _I forgive you._

_I respect you_.

Potter disappeared from sight, into the Great Hall where he was no doubt seeking medical attention for the numerous gashes to his face, arms and upper body. Draco also noted the fact that he was limping, blood flowing freely from a deep cut in his upper thigh. Seconds later, Weasley jogged after him without sparing Draco a glance.

Numbed by a heavy heart full of fear for the future, Draco could only stare at the scene around him. What was he going to do now?

The Mediwitch had long gone, and he took a quick inventory of his injuries. The burn on his calf; caught by fiery falling debris at the base of the grounds. The wetness he felt on his neck was too thick and sticky to be sweat, and there was a stinging sensation behind his right ear that he correctly deduced to be a gash of some kind. He stared down at his arms and hands and caught sight of hundreds of tiny little cuts and scrapes that trailed up and disappeared under the rolled up sleeves of his school robes. He was covered in grime and blood, streaked brown and scarlet, marring the ugly black tattoo on his left forearm and blurring it.

Funny, being a pureblood did not make you invincible. It was something he had always thought of as a child, that feeling of being on top of the world because he was richer, smarter, more attractive and just… _better_. That feeling of wearing a permanent shield, that the purity of his blood could protect him. The elation he felt as a young boy at the cold, calculating look on Lucius' face that could have been pride, or it could have been something else. How Draco had felt when he had landed on the ground after riding a broom for the first time when he was four years old. Or the glow his mother got when he came home for the school holidays, dressed impeccably complete with gracious manners, a perfect little pureblood toy soldier. He had felt so tall, so unbreakable.

Draco stared on.

Granger had a nasty gash on her temple. Strangely, her face was dirt and grime free, save from the flecking of blood on her chin and the crimson from her forehead that trickled down her cheek. Her clothes were ripped, mud caked the bottoms of her Muggle jeans, her jacket was absolutely filthy with blood and dirt and scorch marks, but strangely her face was saved from the ugly signs of war.

Draco didn't acknowledge the strange thought that flitted through his mind as he continued to gaze at her. He thought she looked poised. A war maiden, fresh from a battle. Graceful but wholly capable of destructive wrath. Compared to the hysterical sobbing of Pansy who was sprawled at Granger's feet, Granger was silent. Her back was straight; her chin lifted with indignation and her eyes… oh, her eyes. They burned with determination, grief and challenge. He was afraid of her in that moment.

Draco stared at the blood on her cheek, studying it. It was red. He touched his fingers to his neck, behind his ear, and stared even longer at the droplets of blood that covered his fingertips. He looked back up to Granger, looking for differences in their blood. There was none.

In the tragic aftermath of war within the confines of the Hogwarts courtyard, whilst people were dead or dying around him, Draco found it all very amusing. As a boy, he had imagined a Mudblood to possess exactly that – mud brown blood.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but the dawning realisation that was coming over him was overwhelming. That Granger, the Mudbl–_Muggleborn_ witch he had tormented for the better part of seven years, bled the same colour as he did.

He hadn't seen it before, all those months ago.

Granger, along with Potter, Weasley and that strange blonde girl from Ravenclaw had been captured and brought to Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire. Granger, being the only Muggleborn, had been tortured.

And he didn't have the stomach to witness it. After the first _Crucio_ flew from his aunt Bellatrix's wand, Draco had inched towards the door leading towards his rooms, away from the hall and in the other direction of the dungeons.

Lucius had grabbed at his arm, his left, the one bearing the Mark. But Draco had violently thrown him off, not daring to meet his parents' eyes as he fled the scene. Even in his room, Granger's screams could be heard reverberating through the walls and seeped deeply into his consciousness. Draco had cast a silencing charm on his bedroom, dashed madly for the bathroom off his suite and had promptly thrown up.

No, he hadn't seen her bleed then.

Draco hung his head at the realisation that his father was wrong, wrong, wrong. Cringe or cry – he wasn't sure how to react. Did he seriously think that? Was he so naive to believe his father's words spoken with derision – that the impure had _mud_ flowing through their veins? Furthermore, this meant that the very basis of Voldemort's ideals and loathing of Muggles was based on… well, _nonsense._

He wasn't to know it, but his soul exhaled greatly at that moment. In that moment, as he was staring mindlessly at the cuts on his hands, the Muggleborn and the pureblood witches crouching ten meters from him in his peripheral vision, the tight fist that was his blood based prejudices loosened. The fist, once held closed by an unwavering conviction of superiority and disdain for anything other than the purity of blood, relaxed enough to form a loose jumble of confused fingers.

"…Draco?"

His grey eyes flickered to the source of the timid voice and he found himself staring into the teary, hopeful eyes of Pansy. She rested her fingers on his forearm, casually, as if she were asking for homework.

"It's over, Draco. We're going to be okay, it'll be you and me again."

Draco didn't even hear her soft whisperings. He chose to ignore her, to ignore her hands touching him and instead focused on the spot where Granger had been.

He remained frozen on the bench, dirty, tired and bleeding, until his parents came to collect him. Together, the Malfoy family departed from the battlegrounds.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Tah-dah! My first story. I'm nervous and excited. Sup.


	2. The Beginning

**Disclaimer:** I _obviously_ own nothing, not a thing! J.K. Rowling, on the other hand, owns my _soul_.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2 – The Beginning<strong>

**June, 2002**

Hermione Granger had once read somewhere that things change, but people ultimately don't. She couldn't help but be grateful that this was true, at least in Ron Weasley's case. She sat across from him, distracted from her reading by the disgusting slurping sounds he made as he inhaled his baked beans breakfast.

"Are you going to stop for breath at any point?"

Ron looked up from the Muggle comic book he was flicking through (a recent fascination by Arthur) and shrugged before slurping again at his spoon. "What? I'm hungry."

Hermione smiled when she noticed the colour of the beans matched Ron's hair perfectly. She hadn't been back to the Burrow in weeks due to an increased workload at the Ministry, but it was her second home.

"It's eerie when your house is this quiet," she commented after awhile, dog-earring and setting down her book (a romantic tragedy written by a Muggle playwright).

Ron agreed, looking a little glum.

The Burrow was strangely empty save for Ron on this particular day. Molly had left quite early to visit Andromeda and Teddy Tonks, Charlie had been back in Romania for three weeks and Ginny was training hard for the Holyhead Harpies' next Quidditch season. The Weasley family clock in the living room showed the three hands of Arthur, Percy and George pointing to "Work".

Hermione found it altogether strange to be at the Burrow without having to shout to be heard. In the quiet, asides from Ron's eating noises, Hermione allowed herself to think back to the first time she had stayed at the Burrow. The thought made her smile, but it was short lived and faded slowly.

Sure, people may not change, but things had definitely changed over the past four years since the Battle of Hogwarts and the end of Voldemort's reign.

Saddened, Hermione's eyes flickered to the Weasley clock. Fred's hand had been stuck on "Lost" for the past four years.

Every 2nd of May, she had cried alongside with Ginny on the yearly anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. She had cried for Fred, who never got to turn twenty-one years old. She cried for Remus and Tonks at their love taken too soon, and she had cried for Teddy, who'd grow up never knowing his parents. She had cried herself hoarse at the injustices of hate every year since.

Four years had passed since the Final Battle, and Hermione felt older and wiser, but the pangs of sadness and the nightmares gripped her often.

"What time are you supposed to be at the Ministry?"

Hermione shook her head to clear them of depressing thoughts and she stopped to think before she answered Ron.

"I'm head of the department, Ron," she grinned winningly. "I don't have a clock in or out time. However, it's good you reminded me, I'd almost forgotten I had to go."

Kissing Ron on the forehead and chuckling at his grumbling, Hermione bade her best friend goodbye and Floo'd to her apartment, which was located in Muggle London. Changing out of her jeans and jumper quickly, Hermione cursed when she realised she truly was late.

Dressed ten minutes later in a sensible baby blue blouse, grey pencil skirt and a matching jacket, she was ready. Grabbing her cloak and a heavy folder full of parchments from her desk, she walked down the short hallway of her apartment to a doormat sitting just inside the door.

The few visitors she had had over to her apartment had commented as to why she had a doormat on the _inside_ of her apartment, but it served its purpose. The small rectangle of space was the only place that a witch or wizard could Apparate to and from her apartment; an Anti-Apparition Jinx was in place and covered the rest of her living space.

Hermione was once again glad for having the authorisation and the privilege to have a personal Apparition point directly into the Ministry of Magic. Considering how often she was at work and the late hours she kept, Hermione knew that the telephone boxes would drive her insane eventually.

Eager to start the day, she Apparated with a loud crack.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Hermione's day began as they usually did for her; filled with report reading and parchment signing.

Hermione, the current department head of the Department of Research and Growth, was the second youngest witch to earn such a prestigious position at the ministry. She was only second to Harry Potter who became head of the Auror department when he had turned twenty-one the previous year after Gawain Robards retired.

D.R.a.G. (or 'Drag' as Ron had taken to calling it) was currently the newest department to form in the Ministry of Magic under Minister Shacklebolt's guidance, and it was also the second largest, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement being the first.

It was Hermione's brainchild, and like any parent, she was so very proud of D.R.a.G.'s achievements and success. The number of employees under her was roughly numbered at forty, with a few contractors here and there, and it was busy – _always _busy.

Hermione had seen the painful processes that Ministry officials had to undertake in order to compile research for cases. As an ex-Auror, she had hated having to go on a wild goose chase every time she collated information on the remaining Death Eaters and the cases against them.

She had personally approached Minister Shacklebolt with a proposal; to create a new department that was solely centred on the collection of information, filing them in an effective and efficient system and providing them to the different internal departments at the Ministry. D.R.a.G. had quickly become the Ministry's go-to for wizarding information and the department had subsequently expanded to become an umbrella for research and potions testing.

Hermione sighed and pushed back from her desk when she saw it was nearly lunchtime. She usually had lunch with Harry unless they were flooded with work. Slipping on her heels under her desk, she picked up some paperwork Harry had requested earlier in the week and headed for her best friends' office.

Fortunately for Hermione, Minister Shacklebolt hadn't known where to slip the Department of Research and Growth in the grand scheme of things. Kingsley had placed it under the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, alongside the Aurors, Hit Wizards, the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts and Improper Use of Magic departments. This meant that she worked on the same floor as Harry, and it took her less than a minute before she approached where the Auror offices began.

One hallway from Harry's office, Hermione caught sight of something that had her instinctively diving behind a large trolley of reference journals and pulling out her wand.

The man waiting patiently in the Auror department's waiting room had platinum blonde hair that could only mean it was the Malfoy heir.

Frowning at her instinctive behaviour, Hermione paused to think. She resheathed her wand in her jacket. _Merlin_, she thought. _Did I really expect a fight? Here?_

She peeked around the trolley again and stared at him, chewing on her lower lip in consternation. He looked entirely normal, bored even, and not at all uncomfortable in one of the plastic waiting room chairs.

Hermione cast about her mind, wondering when it was last since she had laid eyes on the tall thin form of her childhood rival. She couldn't be sure but it had to have been some years at least. After the Final Battle, maybe? Or maybe it had been during his family's trials before the Wizengamot.

She had frequently read articles in both the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly that spotlighted on either Malfoy Enterprises or Malfoy's love life gossip, but Hermione had never been interested.

Hefting the heavy stack of parchments in her arms, Hermione continued to covertly stare. He looked… well.

His hair was longer than she'd ever seen it, hanging low over his forehead so that he constantly had to brush it out of his eyes, and long enough at the back that it was tied in a small ponytail. He was dressed impeccably, as she would expect any Malfoy. To her surprise, he was wearing a navy Muggle suit under his robes, matched with a black tie and shiny black shoes. The familiar bored expression on his clean-shaven face made Hermione frown, wondering what he was doing there.

Hermione wasn't sure how long she'd been cowering behind the trolley of reference journals. She watched Malfoy frown slightly, scratch at the back of his neck, and glance around him. Realising he could feel he was being watched, Hermione backed away slowly, dashing back to her office and instead taking the long route to Harry's.

"Harry! What's Malfoy doing here?" she cried breathlessly as soon as she burst into her best friends' office.

Harry looked up and smiled when he saw her. "All right, 'Mione?"

"I'm fine, but seriously, why is he here?"

"Saw that did you?" he raised a dark eyebrow at her, but didn't explain further.

Huffing, Hermione plonked herself ungraciously in one of the chairs across from Harry's desk. She stared intently at the green eyed man before her, eyebrow cocked, willing him to spill the beans.

Harry chuckled at that. "You know I can't discuss Auror business, Hermione."

"Even to an ex-Auror?" she asked hopefully. "Oh Harry, I've only been off the department for two years – cut me some slack!"

"It's Auror stuff, you know the rules," Harry reminded her, glancing back down at the folio he was reading.

Knowing about the oaths Aurors took well, Hermione pouted. "Fine, but don't think I'll stop pestering you. Here's the reports you requested on Monday," she said petulantly, placing the large stack of parchments on the end of his desk.

Harry wasn't the same since the end of the war. Sure, he looked the same – the same piercing green eyes, unruly black hair. He even wore the same round-framed glasses from Hogwarts even though Hermione insisted he could go to St. Mungo's to get his vision fixed.

Physically, Hermione couldn't see much of a difference, but mentally and emotionally, Harry had changed dramatically. He still had the same sense of humour that matched Ron's so well, but there was a darkness in his eyes that had Hermione reaching for his hand often.

Her best friend was prone to heavy silences and on more than one occasion he had zoned out of their conversation completely, lost in a place in his mind where he was reliving memories and remembering the dead.

Harry had announced two weeks previously that Ginny was pregnant with their first child, due to give birth sometime in December. Hermione hoped that the birth would bring back the spark in Harry's eyes; it had been too long since she had seen him laugh freely.

"How's Ginny?"

At the mention of his wife, Harry's smile widened. "She's doing well. She's refusing to skip out on training, however, and she'll finish off this Quidditch season before she goes on maternity."

"Molly mustn't be pleased."

Harry's smile grew wider. "She's been over at our place every day for the past week trying to convince Ginny, but she isn't budging."

Hermione was silent for some time, her curious brain still itching to know what Malfoy was doing here. Was he in trouble? Probably. Hermione had always thought a Malfoy's middle name was either 'trouble', 'git' or 'prat' and she wouldn't be surprised if Draco Malfoy had all three.

"He's here to see me, of course." Harry murmured after a lengthy pause, watching her from the corner of his eye.

"Oh come on, Harry!" Hermione burst out. "You can't tell me that and not everything else."

Chuckling, Harry only shook his head. Even after all these years, he still marvelled at Hermione's need to know _everything_. It wasn't because she was a gossip, it was just… _Hermione_. Just Hermione. "Sorry, 'Mione. I'm under oath anyway."

Pouting, Hermione stood to leave. "Fine, but I'm seeing Ginny tomorrow for lunch. Don't think you're getting out of this scot-free!"

"Chin up, you're not going to die if you don't know."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione finally conceded, accepting defeat. "The next time you request information from my department, I'll make sure you dive through hoops of fire before you get it," she warned teasingly, watching as Harry's smile widened.

Hermione couldn't blame Harry – she understood the demands of being an Auror after being one for two years. In some ways, it was like being an Unspeakable. You weren't allowed to discuss anything pertaining to any ongoing cases to non-Aurors and the barriers of confidentiality that had frustrated Hermione years earlier still frustrated her now.

Wishing Harry a good day, Hermione strolled wistfully back to her office. Instead of going out to lunch, she asked her personal assistant Viri to bring back a sandwich for her and it wasn't long before Hermione drowned herself in the mountain of paperwork that littered her desk.

Busy as she was, Draco Malfoy's sudden appearance in the Auror's office stuck with her throughout the day like a fly caught in a spider's web.

* * *

><p>If Hermione was surprised at seeing Draco Malfoy at the Ministry, she would be even more shocked when three days later Viri informed her that the very same man was requesting a meeting with her for that afternoon.<p>

Curious beyond belief but unsure as to why he would seek her out, Hermione resolved to be cold and unflinching.

"Mr. Malfoy," she said stiffly when he entered her office. She had made him wait an extra ten minutes after their due appointment time just to annoy him. Hermione resisted the urge to greet him as 'Ferret', but she was adamant in maintaining her composure.

"Miss Granger," he replied politely in turn, seating himself elegantly in one of her office chairs.

She stared at the man before her. Here he was, the person responsible for Dumbledore's death, for the deaths of multiple of her classmates and the ensuing heartache.

A niggling voice in the back of her mind argued what Harry told her many years ago, that Dumbledore's death was inevitable, but at that moment Hermione didn't care. She stared him down, animosity evident on her face.

Clearing her throat, Hermione made a show of putting away several reports before she spoke. "What do you want?" she asked rudely.

Eyeing her open door, Malfoy pulled out a thin folder from his briefcase. "I'd like to propose a… business agreement with you, Miss Granger."

Hermione was instantly on alert. She narrowed her eyes at him, not reaching to take the proffered folder he was holding out.

"What kind of business arrangement?" she asked suspiciously.

"I am unsure how well versed you are with my family's company, Granger, but the short of it is that we are expanding at a rapid pace." Draco paused and removed two more pages of parchment from his briefcase.

"I hope to expand into Muggle enterprises by the end of the year."

Blinking in confusion, Hermione stared at him. "Why?"

"Again, to put it simply, it will make the company millions of Galleons," he said, and Hermione could detect the slight annoyance he felt in his voice.

"But _why_?" she challenged, an ugly sneer appearing on her face. "You hate Muggles. You hate everything to do with them and you loathe Muggleborns. This is the Mudblood speaking, remember?"

Malfoy stiffened at her words, eyes flashing. "That is none of your business. The business proposal I am presenting you with involves one thing and one thing only. I require my company's contracts rewritten, to adhere to Muggle law and terminology."

"Why don't you just command one of your drones to do that for you?" Hermione, still clearly suspicious, wasn't giving an inch.

Malfoy exhaled a sigh and sat further back in his chair. "They told me you would be difficult," he glared at her. "I know you wouldn't just take this proposal on face value, Granger, but I have something to offer you in return."

Confident he had no such thing, Hermione raised her chin in challenge. She inwardly prepared to shoot him down, to give him a flat out _no._ Then she could get back to the financial reports she had been poring over before he nonchalantly walked into her office.

"I have… received news that you want to publish a book. A book about the Ministry," Malfoy stated slowly, his cold gray eyes glinting.

Her composure cracked and Hermione gasped. "How do you know this?"

"I have also been told that this venture has not been endorsed by the Ministry," He continued, ignoring her question. "Therefore you have no funding to make it a reality."

"I – How did you find out about this?" Hermione cried, aghast, an angry flush creeping up into her face.

Malfoy smirked at her. "So you don't deny it?"

"I –" Hermione spluttered.

It was true. Hermione had been looking to publish a book on the history of the Ministry of Magic for some time now. She had her initial research thanks to D.R.a.G., but getting personal interviews from Ministry officials were proving to be difficult. Not only did it hamper her progress but also Hermione hadn't thought about how much money it cost to actually write and publish a book.

"I'll back your venture financially, and in return you write up the contracts for Malfoy Enterprises."

"This is – this is extortion," she hissed at him. Hermione was glad her heavy oak desk separated them; otherwise she'd have throttled him by now.

Malfoy scoffed in disdain. "Hardly. It's a business agreement that holds benefits for both parties."

"Like I asked earlier, Malfoy. _Why_."

"Why? Or… are you perhaps really asking why _you._"

"Well the latter is more pressing but both are legitimate to ask." She was still reeling from the shock of seeing him but Hermione wasn't called the brightest witch of her age for no reason.

"To the former, it's like I said and I hate to repeat myself." He glared at her from across the table, his jaw clenching in irritation. "To the latter, I find myself in need of a … Muggleborn who understands Muggle law and can apply it to business contracts."

"I don't like to repeat myself either, Malfoy. I'm sure you have plenty of employees more than capable of the job."

"Yes, who have all turned out to be incompetent toads," he gritted his teeth.

Hermione got the feeling she wasn't the first person he'd approached for his task. She stared appraisingly at him for a full minute, trying to see past the ulterior motive.

"I'm sure you can understand why I'm so reluctant here, Mr. Malfoy." Hermione returned his penetrating gaze with a cold one of her own.

"No, I don't really. So, please if you may, tell me why this wouldn't work out."

"I haven't seen you in years –"

"It was more like two."

"This business proposal is highly suspicious –"

"Only because you're being childish," he interrupted.

"… because of the fact that you can actually think to work with Muggl—"

"I'm an opportunist after a—"

"And you just march into my office and slap down this offer in my face as if we were old chums." Hermione finished angrily, twin spots of pink appearing on her cheeks.

"Firstly, Granger, I don't march," he said arrogantly, tossing his head. "A Malfoy does not _march_. Secondly, I did no slapping to speak of and thirdly, I should have expected this stubborn Gryffindor idiocy from you."

She glared at him. "You know for someone who supposedly needs my help so badly, you don't look like you're trying hard enough to warrant my cooperation."

"Well I'm certainly not going to beg you for this," he sneered. "This is a simple business transaction. I provide you with funding for your book, the salary you forego with its research and the printing and marketing costs, and you in turn write my contracts."

"I'm still trying to find the catch in all of this," she replied, eyes narrowed in suspicion and dislike.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't forget I went to school with you, Malfoy. You're a prat, you're ex-Slytherin and you value self-preservation and personal advancement above all things. So, what's in it for you?"

"Yes, trust you to stereotype based on school Houses," he jeered. "I told you earlier that I hate repeating myself, Granger, but your stupidity apparently knows no bounds."

"Fine," Hermione said suddenly. "I'll do it."

Her brain was doing cartwheels in confusion, still not quite sure as to what her mouth had blurted. Did she really just accept his proposal? Yes, she internally argued. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer, she reasoned. The fact that he would provide her with funding was just an added bonus.

"I – What?"

"Need I repeat myself?" she mocked, dismissing him with her eyes. "Leave your details with my assistant."

Apparently she had surprised him, as he sat frozen for long moments. "Fine," he stated curtly, snapping back to a professional manner. He rose slowly and walked to her door.

Instead of leaving at the conclusion of their meeting like Hermione expected, Malfoy hesitated at her door. "Granger," he began.

Hermione raised an irritated eyebrow at him when he closed the door firmly and returned to the seat in front of her desk.

"I have… one more thing to ask of you."

"What?" Hermione eyed the sudden nervous look that entered into Malfoy's stony face.

"It's… a delicate situation. I need your help on something," The tight expression on his face belied the difficulty he felt in asking her. "But you have to promise to agree to it before I tell you."

"I _knew _it!" she hissed, eyes flashing. "All that rubbish about offering to fund my writing was just a pretence. You were buttering me up! For this!"

He took a deep calming breath. "Granger, I don't know how I'm able to explain this to you easily. I actually _do_ need those Muggle contracts as my company will venture into the Muggle markets by year's end."

Hermione seethed silently in her seat, thoroughly convinced of his Slytherin behaviour.

"Listen to me Granger," he said in an exasperated tone. "What I'm asking of you with _this_… it's complicated. I can't tell you anything about it unless I've got your consent, and not a half arsed 'okay', I need a definite 'yes'."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "So, you're asking for something else of me, but I can't know what it is until I've said yes?"

"Indeed," he clarified, clearing his throat.

"Then no." Hermione stated with finality. "Honestly, Malfoy. The Muggle contracts I can accept, but this I can't. No, I won't. I'm not interested."

"Not even a little bit curious?" he prodded.

"Not even," she sneered in return.

"Why can't you just get off your high horse and put your prejudice aside, Granger?" he suddenly said, anger written over his fair features.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't play dumb. I know you won't help me because you still have your old preconceptions about me from Hogwarts."

Not bothering to deny it, Hermione jutted out her chin. "And if I do? Don't mistake my consent to doing business with you as anything but," she snarled. "I'll accept to that bargain, but that is all."

"I'll pay you double the salary you're ge–"

"Ah yes, very Malfoy of you," Hermione snarled, now standing. "If there's a problem, you throw money at it."

"Oh for fuck's sake, Granger. All I–"

"I'm not interested," Hermione raised her finger when she saw his mouth open in indignation. "That is all."

"Granger –"

"_That is all_," Hermione repeated shrilly, glaring at him.

Draco pursed his lips, eyes flashing daggers at her before he grabbed at his briefcase and left her office, her door loudly banging shut in his retreat.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Thanks for reading! Please review, I'd like to hear your thoughts on the story so far.


	3. Skin

**Disclaimer:** As per usual, I own nothing and I'm just an overgrown kid messing about in J.K. Rowling's sandbox.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3 - Skin<strong>

"Harry?" Hermione poked her head inside his office, knocking softly. "You asked to see me?"

"Hermione, come in. I've got… something to discuss with you."

Frowning at his tone, Hermione took a seat and waited patiently with her hands folded in her lap. She noted the minute changes in Harry's appearance compared to yesterday – he looked god-awful. There were dark circles rimming his eyes and his skin was pasty.

"I don't know how to put this delicately," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Something's happened."

"You're scaring me," Hermione whispered, eyes wide. "Is it Ginny? I—"

"No, nothing to do with that. It's something for work," He waved his wand and the office door closed with a soft click. "_Muffliato_."

Hermione's eyebrows rose at that. What was so confidential that a closed door wasn't enough? Even in the Auror's department?

Clearing his throat, Harry still refused to look at her. "I need to you accept an oath of silence. I need to show you some things that require your… discretion."

Still frowning, Hermione complied.

"Okay. I've received a new case, something that's… well, it's big. I've reshuffled my schedules and work load so I can work on it more than I usually would."

"Why can't someone else take this case?"

"Because it's… complicated. Your oath, Hermione, I have it. What I'm going to show you soon isn't going to be fun, but you can't talk about it after this meeting's done."

Intrigued, Hermione could only nod and wait.

"Come on, we're going for a walk."

Harry stood, cleared his desk and removed the Muffliato from the room. Together, they walked down several hallways until they reached a set of rooms that Hermione recognised as evidence rooms.

At the very last room, Harry removed a small golden key from the inside of his robes and unlocked the door, motioning her to go through.

Hermione entered the sanitised room, seeing two long tables that were placed in the centre of the space. On the far table was an open luggage trunk that reminded Hermione of the same case she owned when she had attended Hogwarts.

The other table held… what was that? Curiously, Hermione approached it staring at the pale soft shapes that lay on the table. Her face was mere inches from it when the realisation hit her and she jerked back.

"Harry, what… what is that?" she choked out, almost too afraid to ask.

"Skin," he replied, his face tinged a sickly green. "Flayed human skin."

And it was. It looked like someone had blown up a realistic human doll and pulled out the pin to let it deflate before setting it back on the table. It looked like one of those Muggle cartoons where the character gets run over by a truck, but plumped and almost… touchable. It was as if someone had sucked out all the bones, all the muscles and nerves with a straw and… Hermione abruptly stopped her imagination from getting too carried away.

The skin was anatomically complete; every finger was intact except for nails and hair. The only thing marring the 'perfection' was a long incision, from the sternum to the pelvis. Hermione assumed that's where the cut began before the skin was forcibly peeled back.

The texture of the skin looked like bleached parchment, and Hermione's stomach roiled at the thought. There were blank, gaping holes where the eyes should have been.

Gracelessly, Hermione staggered back and promptly vomited over the drain in the middle of the room. She didn't stop until the bile burned her throat and tears made her vision swim. "Oh god, oh god."

She stared at the table, letting the horror sink in before she remembered to Scourgify the drain. She staggered to her feet and moved to stand behind Harry, using his body to shield the table from her vision.

"Charlotte has already been to inspect it. It's a perfect shell, Hermione. They made just a single cut, and kept the whole thing intact."

Hermione flinched at Harry's tone, at the fact that he was referring to the grotesque figure on the table as a 'thing' rather than 'person'. It was true; it was no longer a living, breathing human being. She didn't even know how she could possibly describe it.

"He was alive."

Hermione's eyes widened in sickened disbelief and she fought the dry retching that was threatening to overcome her. "I… oh god."

"He was alive when he was cut open."

"Merlin," she breathed, her skin feeling clammy. "How?"

"Magic," Harry said simply. "We analysed the incision, and we found that it's perfect, almost like Muggle lasers. At first we thought it was a Muggle murder, but we found magical residue."

"The skin also had signs of recent flesh damage. We discovered that he'd been cut and then healed with Essence of Dittany. There's twenty four fresh scars in total, we counted them," Harry spat out, sounding sick.

She forced herself to ignore the _thing_ on the table and listen as Harry continued in a monotone voice.

"At first I suspected Sectumsempra, but there's only a few people who know of that curse, and most of them are dead." Harry slowly approached the table, indicating to Hermione.

Only now Hermione noticed the pinkish white lines that marred the flayed skin, over arms, legs and torso.

"What… was it some kind of _object_ that killed him? Or some kind of spell?"

"If it was a spell, it's Dark magic like I've never seen before. If it was an object, I'm going to have to involve a lot more people into this."

"Were they…" Hermione gulped, a flashback of her time in Malfoy Manor flitted through her head. "Tortured?"

"I don't know, Hermione. The Cruciatus doesn't leave any obvious physical marks so how are we supposed to know if we can add 'Use of Unforgivable spells' to this killers' list? Even then, we have no eyes to check for burst blood vessels, no muscles to check for petrification, nothing."

"It'll still be life, though?" Hermione asked, referring to imprisonment in Azkaban.

Harry glanced at the table once more, his chin quivering with anger. "Most definitely."

"Who was it, Harry?" Hermione's voice was barely above a whisper. She almost didn't want to know the identity of this poor soul.

He was silent for some time.

Hermione cast her mind about for possibilities and when the answer came to her, she gasped. She had read it in the Daily Prophet just yesterday in the Missing Persons section, second to last page. Hermione hadn't taken much notice as her subscription to The Practical Potioneer was lying right under the Prophet, but she could recall the headline clearly_._

"It's… It's Flint? Marcus Flint?"

Harry nodded slowly. "There's more."

He handed over a flattened piece of parchment, encased with a stasis charm. Hermione balanced the stasis on the flat of her palm, turning the parchment so she could read the single sentence that was scrawled on it.

_I blame you completely._

"Who's 'you'? It doesn't seem like — I'm sorry Harry. Could we possibly…?" Hermione glanced at the shell on the table, sure that her face matched the greyish pallor of his.

They stepped out into the hallway, and Hermione took a deep calming breath. "Why are you showing me this?"

Harry stared at her. "I think you know why. He came to you yesterday wanting to enlist you."

"I — _Malfoy_? What's he got to do with this? _Oh my god, _did he do it?" The look on Hermione's face would have been comical had the situation not been so horrific.

"Don't be daft, Hermione. No, it… _that_ got sent to him."

Ah, so that's why he looked so nervous and desperate during the second half of their meeting yesterday. The cogs in her head began to move, and Hermione was silent for a few minutes.

"'_You'_ could be Malfoy. Or it could be Flint," Harry continued, raking his hand through his already messy hair. His green eyes were scrunched in frustration.

"I'm betting it's Malfoy," Hermione replied after some thought. "Why would you flay someone alive, kill him, write that note and send it to Draco Malfoy if it wasn't a message for him?"

Harry paused. "That's true."

"How was it delivered?"

"Malfoy isn't sure. The House Elves brought the trunk into the Manor, they said it had been lying just outside the gates. They'd scanned it to see if it was malicious, but since the Elves didn't get a reading, they assumed it was a package for Malfoy."

"No one would risk sending it by owl, they're far too easy to track," Hermione mused. "Is it possible that someone just _walked up_ to his front gates and left the trunk?"

"That's what it's looking like right now."

"But it wasn't addressed specifically to Malfoy, was it? Nothing on the trunk?"

"No. Just the trunk, the skin and the note."

"Were there any spells on the trunk itself?"

"Good question. We sent for a Gringotts Curse Breaker this morning."

"Bill?"

"No, not Bill. Malfoy explicitly asked for confidentiality, and the Curse Breaker signed a contract for immediate Obliviation following the inspection."

"What did they find?"

"Two things. The first was a tracking charm, so we're sure that the killer knows we have the … trunk."

"And the second?"

"An identification ward. Only Malfoy could open the case."

"Tch, then you already knew it was directed to Malfoy, Harry!" Hermione admonished him. "If you've already got this information, why am I here?"

"Because, well…" Harry trailed off, suddenly looking sheepish. "Malfoy asked for you by name."

"He — what?"

"He asked for you by name," Harry repeated. "He said that you think differently to your everyday person and having you aboard the case teamed with the authority you have over the Research and Growth department would be a boon to solving this."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at her best friend. "Harry Potter, you mean to say that Malfoy wants to enlist me for my _job_?"

"No, that's not it at all!" he protested. "I completely agree with him on the angles of perspective – I mean, look you've already started doing it. You're asking questions, all the right questions."

She rolled her eyes. "Flattery doesn't work on me, Harry. I'm asking questions you've already answered."

"Still," he said stubbornly. "I'd feel a lot more comfortable working with Malfoy if I had someone I could trust by my side."

She softened at that. "You don't trust him then."

He was quiet for some time. "No, I do. Surprisingly. I just don't trust… this. This thing he's dropped into my lap."

Hermione gazed sadly at the door that opened into that room of horrors. "I can't… I just can't believe how depraved some people can be. Imagine that," she murmured, worrying her lower lip. "Being conscious as someone cut into you, and then being bathed by Dittany only to have it start over again."

"And then having to listen to your owns screaming as someone pried your skin off your back," Harry was shaking with anger. "We'll get to the bottom of this, Hermione, but I need your help. I know you won't join just for Malfoy, but would you do this for me?"

After what she had seen in the room, Malfoy or not, Hermione knew she would have said yes. This show of barbarism and mental depravity reminded her too much of Bellatrix Lestrange and Hermione's jaw clenched at the thought. Even if Harry hadn't asked, she would have said yes.

Because not only did it grind tiny shards of glass against the roof of her mouth, that someone could be so malicious and _evil_ as to do that to another person, but the fact that they had done it again and _again_.

And then there was the witnessing a slow and excruciatingly painful death by _flaying_. That was the kind of things she only read about in folklore – no, not even! It was the kind of thing she heard about in Muggle horror films, and she shuddered involuntarily.

Harry was right when he said it was like nothing he'd ever seen before, it was the same for Hermione. This was something she understood, the perking up of her curiosity when presented with a new jigsaw puzzle. She pursed her lips, suddenly feeling determined. Harry was also right that she would never accept this assignment just for Malfoy's benefit, no matter how much money he threw at her.

The challenge had been presented, accepted.

"As you said Harry," she raised her eyes to Harry who was staring at her intensely. She grabbed for his hand and squeezed it hard. "We'll get to the bottom of this."

* * *

><p>"The first thing I want to say on this matter is that it will be strictly confidential," Draco stated stiffly, his back ramrod straight in his chair. He was nervously tapping his quill on the parchment and a part of him was still disbelieving at the situation he found himself in.<p>

"How can we keep a body 'strictly confidential'?" Granger asked heatedly.

"Not even a _body,_" Harry murmured quietly.

"We will try for as long as we can." Draco stubbornly lifted his chin and shuffled the papers before him. "I've already drawn up contracts for the both of you," he said, handing them two parchments each. "These are magically binding."

"We know what binding contracts _are,_ Malfoy." Granger said in an condescending tone, staring at him as if he were an idiot.

Merlin, he didn't think dealing with Granger again would be so… annoying. He clenched his jaw in irritation but ignored her tone. Draco hated to admit it, but he needed her, needed _them_.

"Potter, I spoke to you about this on our first meeting, but I will repeat for Granger's sake. I want the case team to be as small as possible. I want strict control on the flow of information and I want to be part of the investigation."

"Part of the investigation?" Granger asked, frowning. "We can't let civilians partake in cases, it's illegal." she said stiffly.

"Then I withdraw any remaining evidence I have in my possession and I will go to the Prophet," he sneered. "They'll have a field day with you lot failing to solve this case."

"Honestly, can you be any more of a prat? Marcus Flint is _dead_ and you'd be willing to start a media frenzy because we said no? What are you, twelve?"

Draco levelled a deadly stare at her, his gaze unflinching. "I believe I have more of a vested interest in solving this case than you do, Granger. I, unlike you, actually _knew_ Flint."

"Hermione," Potter said softly. "Don't rile him up."

Staring at Harry, Malfoy clenched his jaw. "Potter, is she really necessary?"

Granger rolled her eyes at that and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Those were my terms, Malfoy." Harry looked at him apologetically and his lips quirked into an amused smile. "We're a package deal, it's the two of us or nothing at all."

"Are you sure there isn't anyone else?"

"She's the best."

"I've organized space at my home for us to work on this case," he said stiffly. "I've extended some rooms and completely built new ones. I'd like for you to bring anything related to the investigation there. I'll not have some nosy fool poking around the Ministry to stumble upon it."

Draco relished the widening of Granger's eyes and her paled complexion. She hadn't seen that one coming now, did she? Stupid bint.

"Why are you so adamant in keeping a lid on this, Malfoy?" she asked, her voice low. "Surely you have nothing to hide."

"I didn't kill him, if that's what you're hinting at," he glared. "I have… other reasons for this."

"Pray tell," Hermione said coolly eyeing him.

"Two things. The first is that this could severely damage the reputation of Malfoy Enterprises. I've worked too long and too hard for anything to befall this company now and I'll _not_ have it connected."

"And the other?" she prodded.

"My… father is dying," Draco said carefully, watching Hermione's face for her reaction.

Lucius, serving a five-year sentence in the current Dementor-less Azkaban, was dying within its walls. Draco had received news just a few months prior; the prison's Mediwitches and wizards didn't know what to make of it, and had assumed it was the long exposure to dark magic that was slowly leeching away at his life.

He'd already revealed this information to Potter on their first meeting. Draco was surprised when Potter had accepted so willingly, and he wasn't sure how to take it. He didn't know when their quasi-relationship had extended to becoming almost civil, but Draco conceded that it was ultimately worth the smooth running of his plans.

That is, until Granger had to step in and be a Grade A Bitch.

"I… see."

Malfoy snorted. "I know there's no love lost there."

"You have to admit, Malfoy," she sniped back in her defence. "Lucius wasn't exactly Saint Nicholas."

"Who?" _Saint Nicholas?_

"Never mind," Hermione pinked slightly, frowning and obviously thinking hard.

"Don't hurt yourself thinking Granger, you look almost pained."

Hermione didn't bother to hide the sneer of disgust on her face. "And why should Lucius' situation matter?"

Draco fought the urge to reach across the table and throttle her. He stiffened at her tone, at her callous dismissal of his father. "This is of… a personal nature. Due to my father's failing health, there is a lot of pressure on my mother."

"Narcissa?" Granger looked surprised.

"Yes," Draco responded, ignoring the hard kernel of guilt that settled at the pit of his stomach. "I do not wish to cause her unnecessary stress."

"I don't know how much I can work on this case, Malfoy," she stated bluntly, sniffing in disdain.

"Once we've started, we'll be able to break down the roles. I have altered my work schedules to reflect the case."

Harry, who had been silent all throughout this exchange, stood suddenly. "Lets get cracking," he said.

Nodding in agreement, Draco also stood. He held out his arm and smirked when Granger visibly flinched.

Funny, shouldn't it have been _him_ as the pureblood wincing at _her_ touch? He'd put all that behind him, and Muggleborns and Muggles alike didn't cause him the discomfort they used to. He was only twenty-two but he felt like he were forty. He was tired of the past.

Draco stared her down, inwardly rolling his eyes when she hesitantly placed her hand on his sleeve. With a crack, Draco Disapparated, taking Granger and Potter with him.

"I – Where are we?" Granger swayed unsteadily on her feet, affected by the Side-Along.

Potter on the other hand was fine, gazing up at the large two-story house before them.

"Godshill, Isle of Wight." Draco raised his wand and altered many of the wards on the property to allow both Potter and Granger.

He turned back to them and tucked his wand into his suit jacket. "The wards will allow you entry now. Remember this place, there are very few people who know of it."

Draco gestured to the side of the house closest to them where they could see a simple white door. "This is the side door, inside you'll find the investigation room and more besides. I'd show you more now, but unfortunately I have a meeting in Rome to attend shortly."

Their meeting concluded shortly after that. Granger was the first to Apparate away and Malfoy didn't miss the look of derision she cast his way.

"Give her some time, Malfoy." Potter said quietly before he, too, disappeared with a distinct pop.

Sighing, Draco allowed himself some room to breathe. It was true that he had a meeting in Rome that required his presence, but he had lied about the urgency. He wasn't actually due there until tomorrow morning.

He trudged up to the porch swing that was located on his front deck and sank tiredly down into it, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Ever since he had gone to Malfoy Manor earlier that week to visit his mother, his life had been turned upside down. Draco recalled seeing the trunk placed outside his bedroom door, at his revulsion when he realised what was inside and the anger that consumed him at the written parchment. He had almost killed Bitsy, the House Elf, whom he had summoned to interrogate about the trunk's appearance.

_Flint, damn it, what happened? What the fuck happened?_

Burdened with a heavy heart and a buzzing mind, Draco headed inside. He only hoped that his plan including Potter and Granger would reveal who would do this to Flint, to him, and for what reason. Pouring himself a doubleshot of Firewhiskey, he sat before a blazing fire in his living room and didn't retire for bed until the early hours of the morning.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** So there's Chapter 3. The mystery has been introduced, a few drops of humanity (and inhumanity) has been sprinkled, so lets see where we go from here, shall we?

Read and Review, I'd love to know what you think of the story so far.


	4. Questions

**Disclaimer: **As per usual, I own nothing, J.K. Rowling is obviously superior. Carry on.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

**Chapter 4 - Questions**

Needing to feel in control in such a volatile situation, Hermione had done her research. Godshill, it turned out, was a small parish village in the center of the Isle of Wight with a population numbering at around 1,500.

Malfoy's house had been situated on a hill, with sweeping plains on one side and a natural woodland forest on the other. Hermione assumed it was either in the remotest corner of Godshill or Malfoy had applied some very strong repellant and disillusionment spells.

Hermione grudgingly admitted that it was a fantastic location to work in for a secret investigation, and she felt a pang of irritation that Malfoy had chosen the small village to live in. It was small, isolated away from Muggles, distant enough from the rest of Wizarding England, but not far enough to feel closed off.

She had taken to carrying around a thick notebook she had purchased at Flourish and Blott's, new with leather binding. In this book Hermione began to scribble notes and thoughts that pertained to the flaying murder.

She hadn't owned the new journal for more than an hour when she'd already filled six pages, all full of the current facts they held. She included the notes on the evidence, her thoughts and questions she should ask the next time she saw Harry or Malfoy.

A knock sounded at her door and Hermione raised her head, smiling brightly when she saw Harry.

"Got a moment, 'Mione?"

"Sure, I was just working on Malfoy's case," she gestured to her journal.

"I noticed that you haven't been to the case room in Godshill yet," Harry began carefully, taking a seat at her desk.

She nodded stiffly, frowning at her scribbles in the journal. "I know. I've been… busy." _Busy avoiding you both_, she thought inwardly.

"Hermione, I think you need to cut him some slack," he said gently.

"Why? The Ferret doesn't deserve it."

"Just put yourself in his shoes," Harry insisted. "His dad's dying, he found out one of his close mates during school dies like_ that _and he's got to shoulder the responsibility for it."

"Why are you so sympathetic towards him, Harry?" She stared at her best friend, unsure where these emotions were coming from. "You, of all people, he hurt you the _most_."

Harry gazed at her for a long moment. "I hope your dislike of him isn't on my account," he murmured after a moment.

She scoffed. "Harry, just because he happens to be a prominent, respected member of society _now_ won't erase years of bullying and wrongdoings. I've told you before; I may forgive, but I'll _never _forget."

Harry remained silent during her tirade. After the war, he had shared her viewpoint exactly, but over time the burden of keeping grudges tired him out. Harry, already carrying so much baggage from the past, was more than glad to be released of the hate he had once held so close to his chest.

Looking to the future, Harry had let it go. It saddened him to realise that his best mates were still caught up in childhood rivalries. He hadn't even told Ron about meeting with Malfoy, let alone working on a secret case with him. If Harry knew Ron, which he did, he was sure that Ron would flip and attempt to sabotage or even attempt to maim the blond ex-Slytherin.

"I blame him directly for Dumbledore's death," Hermione whispered bitterly.

Harry winced at the mention of their former Headmaster and he reached across Hermione's desk to grasp her hands in his. "Dumbledore would have gone either way, 'Mione. The curse from the Ring gave him less than a year, remember?"

"Yes, I _do_ remember, Harry. It's not so easy to forget."

"I know," Harry said quietly. "I like to think that Dumbledore did what he did because… well… maybe he saw something in Malfoy that was worth saving."

"That still doesn't excuse him!" Hermione pulled her hands away, a fierce look of hate on her face.

Harry was saddened at her vehement response. "We've… reached an understanding."

"Is it an understanding that I _won't_ _understand_, or something? Why can't you tell me?"

"It's just..." he murmured.

Hermione caught the distant look in his eye and realised he had drifted into his memories again. "Harry?"

"Snape," he said finally, snapping back into the present.

"Snape?"

"We share Severus, 'Mione."

"How so?"

Harry was silent again, and Hermione got the distinct feeling that he didn't want to tell her the reason. "That first meeting I had with him... Draco admitted to me that Snape was more of a father to him than Lucius ever was."

"Were you standing over him with your wand drawn?" she joked.

Seeing Harry's disapproving expression, Hermione floundered for a response. "I – I was just saying that it must have been hard for the prat to admit that."

"I've forgiven him, Hermione." Harry gazed at her, and Hermione found it hard to meet his eye. "A long time ago. It took awhile, but I realised he was never a _villain_ in the grand scheme of things."

Hermione frowned at that. She hadn't seen Malfoy in such… stark lighting either, but she certainly didn't categorise Malfoy as being _innocent_.

She stared at her best friend, feeling uncomfortable and wholly unsettled by his words and the expression on his face.

"He was as much a victim as we were," Harry said, his voice so quiet that Hermione almost didn't hear him.

Hermione struggled to wrap her head around that foreign idea. She was silent for a long time before she let out a long sigh. "This is all very philosophical of you, Harry."

"I know," he said softly.

"What you've just told me, it's not the kind of thing that someone can just _absorb_ and accept."

"I know," he repeated.

"So, you're going to have to excuse me if I continue to be an insolent bitch to that bastard." Hermione jutted her chin out in defiance to her best friend who chuckled in return.

"I wasn't expecting much more than just you listening to me, to be honest."

"Besides, I quite enjoy being snarky to him." Hermione smiled softly. "I honestly can't do it to Ron, half the time he doesn't know when I've insulted him and when he does realise, it's far too late."

Harry stood to leave. "So, I'll… see you at Godshill?"

Hermione couldn't deny the hopeful look on his face and she smiled nervously. "I'll be there tonight."

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"Where's Harry?"

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at her question. "Last time I checked, this was _my_ house, not Potter's."

Hermione flushed slightly at that, momentarily berating herself. She had reluctantly Apparated to Godshill ten minutes before seven, expecting to see Harry in the case room.

Hermione had taken a moment to study the room Malfoy had built for them.

It was large, spacious and rectangular with whitewashed walls and plenty of lighting. On one side of the room was a long, heavy oak table with several chairs. On the other side of the room was a large fireplace, a comfortable navy couch, a wide timber coffee table and several dark green armchairs.

She had brought all her notes, and was full of questions for Harry. What she got, however, was Malfoy lounging languidly in an armchair by the fire in the large room.

Huffing, she avoided Malfoy's piercing gaze and seated herself at the long table and began to spread her notes out.

Hermione wished Harry were here. She was far more comfortable speaking to a trusted friend rather than someone she'd rather see at the bottom of a river, preferably with a large rock tied to their ankles.

"What are you doing?" she asked abruptly when she realised Malfoy had gotten up and he'd walked to the far wall to stare at the empty space.

Malfoy promptly ignored her and continued to stare intently at the blank wall. Finally, after a long moment's pause, he drew his wand and waved.

Marcus Flint's name appeared on the wall in black ink, directly in the middle, followed by Malfoy's name appearing on the top right. Spidery lines connected them and the connection was labelled "Discovered By".

Hermione watched in morbid fascination as Malfoy continued to fill the wall.

Flint's basic profile was filled out in smaller writing under his name. Another spidery arrow flew out from Flint's name and listed the situation and facts surrounding the discovery of his remains. A magical copy of the killer's note appeared on the top left of the board, and several spidery lines flowed from it, connecting to Flint's and Malfoy's text bubbles.

Malfoy finished the writing, ending with a bold flourished question mark above Flint's name. He pulled up an armchair to face the wall where he sat and summoned a glass of ice and Firewhiskey. Malfoy remained silent and continued to ignore her.

Hermione was, she hated to admit, slightly impressed. She'd seen the same style of case boards in Muggle homicide television shows and she was surprised that Malfoy had thought to do one up for their investigation also.

Breathing deeply and stowing her irritation and pride, Hermione slowly put her quill down.

"Malfoy," she began, hesitating when his blond head turned toward her slowly. "I have some questions about the murder."

He inclined his head, indicating she continue.

"If you live in Godshill, why was the trunk sent to Malfoy Manor?"

"Not many people know I no longer live at the Manor," he answered after a brief pause. "I have been in Godshill for three months only, prior to that I was still at Wiltshire."

"Why?"

"I'm twenty-two, Granger. It's not a strange occurrence for someone to move out of the family home."

"What I meant," she blushed, frowning. "Was why would you move out when there's space in Wiltshire? I'm assuming Narcissa would have wanted you nearby considering… er. Considering Lucius' … situation."

"That's none of your business," he suddenly hissed, eyes glinting sharply. "Next question."

Hermione's upper lip curled in derision before she checked her notebook. "When was the last time you saw Flint?"

"Six months ago. Society party at the Parkinson's household."

"Pansy Parkinson?" Hermione asked, unsure as to why she was surprised. Of course Malfoy would keep in contact with his cronies from school.

Malfoy didn't answer, just cocked his eyebrow at her arrogantly and continued to sip on his drink.

There was a sharp crack just outside the door to the investigation room and Harry appeared a moment later, shrugging off his coat.

"Sorry I'm late, we got held up with a raid for Dark items," the green-eyed man apologised, pausing when he could feel the tension vibrating in the room.

Coughing delicately, Harry set his briefcase down and looked between Hermione and Malfoy. He noted the narrowed eyes of the blond businessman and the furious tilt of Hermione's jaw and he sighed, cursing that he hadn't been there to mediate from the beginning.

"Okay, lets get to speculating," Harry said without preamble. "Suspects. Who's most likely the culprit?"

"It's the wife of course," Hermione stated, as if it were obvious. "Or the girlfriend, fiancé, significant other – whichever."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "This isn't some trashy romance novel, Granger. There could be any number of reasons for motive. Personally, I think it's a business rival, a woman couldn't do this."

"Don't underestimate women, Malfoy," Hermione hissed in anger. "Statistically, people always turn to men as being the culprit because not a lot of people can see a woman being responsible."

Harry was silent, knowing that Hermione's mind had flitted to Bellatrix.

"But I can assure you that women, just like men, are _more than capable_ of killing someone." Hermione's eyes were narrowed to slits and an ugly sneer was on her lips. _If you _push_ me, I will kill you_, was what her cold look implied.

Malfoy returned her look with a bored expression. "Like I said, this isn't a romance novel, Granger. I enlisted you for an analytical point of view, not Witch Weekly garbage."

"I'll have someone look into Flint's business dealings," Harry piped up, defusing the tension once more. "There may have been a rift with any one of his associates."

"I still say it was the wife," Hermione sniffed stubbornly. "Statistically, crimes of passion are the murders that happen most in Britain. In civil Muggle courts in America they call it 'temporary insanity' and a lot of people use it as a defence."

"You should have been sorted into Ravenclaw with the way you regurgitate statistics," Malfoy hissed. "But it's apparent that the Sorting Hat mistook your stupidity for bravery and stuck you in the house where that idiocy would be nurtured."

Harry didn't miss the sudden flare of anger in Hermione's eyes and the twitch of her hand towards her forearm where he knew she kept her wand. "Well," he interrupted quickly, uncertainly, looking between them just in case another fight broke out. "Bully for us, because Flint wasn't married, engaged or seeing anyone."

"Told you so." The blond smirked infuriatingly at Hermione.

"Merlin, what are you? Twelve?" she huffed.

Harry cleared his throat. "From the people we interviewed, we have reasonable belief that he frequented…" Harry looked uncomfortable. "Er… Wicked Witches."

"A store?" Hermione asked blankly.

"An escort service," Malfoy choked back a laugh.

"Oh." Hermione blushed hotly to the tips of her ears. "You seem quite familiar with the establishment, Malfoy," she accused.

He shrugged, picking at an invisible bit of fluff on his arm.

"So," Hermione continued, eager to get away from the uncomfortable turn of conversation. "Flint was a single, unattached man who frequently used escorts to… indulge himself." Try as she might, she couldn't stop the blush that appeared when she said it.

"Basically." Harry grinned. "I got Willoughby and Jones down to Wicked Witches this afternoon to check it out."

"Willoughby and Jones?" Malfoy raised an eyebrow in disapproval.

"Don't worry, they both signed Obliviation clauses. They were due for them just as I was leaving and I have their reports here," Harry indicated to a short stack of parchments on the table.

"Give us the short story," Malfoy growled in reply.

"Well, short story is that Flint liked them young and in their teens. After some, er, I'll call it 'friendly prodding'; the proprietor for Wicked Witches gave up Flint's customer history. He never saw a single escort more than once, and all their uh… _activities_ were kept on the premises."

"So," Hermione deduced. "He had a new escort every time. That's not enough to form any kind of relationship where the girls would be able to gain access to his _home_."

"Who knows? Maybe Flint was one for pillow talk." Draco stared directly at Hermione, inwardly laughing when she began to blush again.

"That and Flint may have been nabbed anywhere, not just his home," Harry interjected.

"Right. Er… What has the Flint family been told? About his…" What could Hermione say? 'Death' was too soft a word to describe what had happened. 'Disappearance' gave the illusion that Flint could still be saved.

She swallowed the bile that rose in the back of her throat, the sickening images of parchment-like skin flashing behind her eyelids.

"They haven't been informed."

Hermione was aghast. "Why not?" she demanded. "No one deserves _that_. Aren't they looking for him? He's been gone for almost a week!"

Malfoy gazed at her witheringly. "They haven't been informed because Flint _has _no remaining family members. His father perished in the war and Ursula died shortly after that. No extended family."

Hermione flushed angrily, sure that he had been baiting her the whole time. She opened her mouth to fire off a snide remark when she caught a warning look from Harry. She closed her mouth slowly and remained silent, eyes tight with anger.

Glaring at Malfoy, Hermione stood and flourished her wand against the wall that the blond had been facing earlier with the armchair. Black writing appeared in dot-points under Flint's name, adding the information that Harry had brought.

Harry, seeing the wall for the first time, raised his eyebrows.

They speculated for a while longer before Harry had to leave to get back to Ginny.

Not wanting to be left alone with Malfoy, Hermione rushed out a half-arsed excuse that sounded false to her own ears and left shortly after.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

The following week, Draco met with several old friends whom he hadn't seen in some time. Part of him still remained unnerved at seeing Flint's skin packed into the trunk and he felt the tiniest beginnings of fear gripping the base of his spine.

He had seen Pansy just a few days earlier, but hadn't hung around for long. He could never deal with Parkinson; she was a simpering, coquettish witch who frequently got on Draco's nerves. Nothing had changed since Hogwarts.

He had stayed at the café in Hogsmeade with her only long enough to see if she was okay before he feigned a meeting to attend and quickly fled.

Draco had Portkeyed to Paris on this particular day. It was rare for him to look forward to anything, but today he was almost anxious to see his old housemate.

"Zabini," Draco greeted the dark skinned wizard who approached him, a rare smile gracing his fair features.

"Draco! It's been months since I've seen you, how goes it?"

"I've been well. Have you been in England?"

"Nah, I've been in France for the past six months – Bordeaux, Marseille and Nice. Women and wine, and all that." The Slytherin's smooth dark features were pulled into a smirk and he exchanged a knowing glance with Draco.

Together, they were seated in an out-of-the-way expensive Muggle café in a busy Parisian street, two blocks from the prestigious _Champs-Élysées_.

"Have you seen any of the old House at all?" Blaise asked, shrugging out of his expensive looking suit jacket.

"Not particularly," Draco replied once their hot beverages had arrived. "I see Goyle and Parkinson every few months."

"Ah, the parents still endorsing society parties, I see." Blaise grinned at his friend. "I've got to say mate, I'm not envious at all."

Draco's upper lip curled in disdain. "Mother's still trying to push 'eligible witches' in my direction during those, it sickens me every time."

Blaise chuckled. "I heard Nott's taken an extended leave to Hawaii."

"Two months, last I heard," Draco shrugged, disinterested.

"What about birds, Draco? How's the skirt chasing in England?"

Draco smiled wryly at that. "Ignore Witch Weekly if you will, that rag's always been trash."

"Come now," Blaise admonished. "Don't tell me that fling with Adrianna LeFay wasn't true?"

"I wouldn't go near that slag," Draco spat. "I deal with enough parasites at work without sleeping with one."

Laughing, Blaise clapped a hand on his old friend's back. The playful glint, however, disappeared slowly from Blaise's eyes as he appraised his old housemate. "Now, as much as I'd like to think that this is a pleasant social call, I'm wondering why you're here."

Draco was torn. Blaise, of all his mates from school, was probably the person he related to most even though their contact over the years had been spotty at best. He would go so far to say that Blaise could almost pass for a 'best friend', but he had never been one for labels.

"I just... I just needed to know if you were okay." _Alive_, was what Draco actually meant, and he cringed.

Blaise's eyebrows shot to his hairline at that. What was this? Malfoy admitting he _cared_ about someone else? Blaise could have laughed out loud in shock. Instead, he pinned a severe look to Draco.

"What aren't you telling me?" Blaise's intelligent brown eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Draco rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling the slightly raised flesh of scars from the past. "Just… Check in with me every so often, yeah?"

Blaise pushed back from the table, frowning. "Something's happened."

"Yeah," Draco stated curtly.

"But you won't tell me."

"No."

Blaise was quiet once more, the teasing light in his eyes had completely gone, and was replaced with a cold, calculating stare. "Is… is my life in danger, Draco?"

"No." Draco winced at the blatant half-lie. "Maybe. I don't know."

"Draco Malfoy, I don't like these half-arsed revelations. Explain."

Draco didn't miss the fumbling of Zabini's hand under the table, felt the tip of a wand rest lightly on his knee. He coolly gazed at Blaise, unperturbed.

"_Now_."

"Flint's dead. Merlin's sake, put your wand away," he said irritably and scowled until the pressure let up from his knee. Draco spent the next half hour explaining the situation to Blaise who neither interrupted nor showed any outward emotion. When he was done, Blaise leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed in thought.

"I understand," he said quietly. "What… what can I do to help?"

Draco was surprised at the offer. "Nothing," he said automatically. "I didn't tell you this to rope you in, Blaise."

"I know. But…" Zabini shrugged, pushing away his cold cup of coffee. "You sound as if you don't think it'll stay at one fatality. You're expecting the killer to strike again."

Staring off into the distance, Draco's lips thinned. He had glanced at the case wall last night, his usual glass of Firewhiskey in hand. He knew that with just the evidence they had, this case would quickly become cold. There wasn't enough leads, not enough information.

Sad as it was to think of it, Draco knew that if the killer didn't strike again, they would reach a dead end.

It sickened him to realise that someone _else_ needed to die in order for them to move forward with their progress.

Swallowing thickly, he met Zabini's fierce stare. "I'm betting on it."

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

**A/N:** Godshill is a real location in the Isle of Wight; I looked up imagery of it and found it a lovely place. At first I was going to stick Draco's house somewhere in Norfolk or Cornwall, but the Isle of Wight seemed perfect. It's isolated, it's special, and it screamed "Draco" to me when I was researching.

Also, I apologise if there are spelling or grammar mistakes; I'm writing without the aide of a Beta Reader. :(

**Edit:** I had actually posted up Chapter 5 around 8 hours after I posted Chapter 4. I decided to take it down because I think I got a little too enthusiastic with the idea of writing my own story, and the plot progression kind of leapt across chasms with no explanation. Thus, a revised Chapter 5 will be released in the next few days. Hopefully.


	5. Second

**Disclaimer: **I own diddly-squat.

**A/N:** This chapter was a lot harder to write than I thought. It took three late nights (one with heavy downpour), about 6 cups of tea and 3 glasses of red wine to finish. Thank you to **duffie83**, my first reviewer! I value your feedback :)

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

**Chapter 5 - Second**

Flint's funeral was a lonely affair.

As per his will, Marcus Flint was buried in Westgate Cemetery, along with his ancestors. Draco thought that a Muggle cremation would have been less ironic, considering there wasn't much of a body _left __to_ bury.

Draco, dressed smartly in inky black robes, glanced slightly to his right where Granger and Potter stood silently. They had opted to attend, insisting that it was an opportunity to scope out possible suspects. Draco wasn't sure why, considering that with the three of them present, they'd effectively doubled the number of attendees.

Asides from himself, Potter, Granger and the officiator, only three others were present. Blaise, Pansy and Gregory Goyle stood across from them. Flint's casket levitated above the dug two by one meter hole, effectively separating them.

He didn't miss the strange looks that Potter and Granger received from his ex-Slytherin housemates. He also didn't miss their questioning gazes when Draco had opted to stand beside Potter. He rationalized that three people facing three people balanced well and the spotlight on Potter and Granger would be intensified had he stood with the others.

Draco had frowned at first when he saw their number. Where was everyone else? Had Flint really led such a solitary life after Hogwarts that the only people who bothered to show up to his funeral were four of his classmates and two Ministry heads sniffing around for clues?

The thought depressed him for some reason.

Draco thought it was appropriate that it was raining heavily. It matched the somber mood and the sour tang that had coated Draco's mouth ever since they had arrived at the cemetery. He stared at Flint's casket, a lead weight in his stomach. It was a closed casket funeral, and only Pansy and Goyle were the ones left in the dark as to _why _that was. The officiator's voice droned on and Draco found it easy to tune him out.

Instead, his mind drifted as he watched the officiator slowly lower Flint's casket into the ground. Across from him, Pansy was sobbing delicately into a lace handkerchief and he felt Blaise's intense stare.

The officiator flicked his wand and wet clay from a mound nearby slowly filled the casket like water. It was while he watched the mix of soil and water filling Flint's last resting place that a chord was struck deep within Draco.

This whole sordid situation made him think of his own mortality. With Flint's death, yet another of Wizarding Britain's rare pureblood families was wiped from existence. If Draco died without producing an heir, the Malfoy line would be subsequently erased, too. He mentally shrugged, realizing that that point didn't really hold much sway with him.

No, the realization that hit him in the stomach was that Draco didn't want to die like Flint had. He didn't want to be a murder victim, and he sure as hell hoped there would be more than six people at his funeral.

Who would attend? His mother, Blaise maybe, Pansy maybe… and who else?

The thought made him swallow thickly. As closed off as he was to other people, he didn't want to die alone. That would be dismal. Unfit for a Malfoy, he thought arrogantly.

Then again, he didn't exactly want to rush out the next day and befriend a thousand people, just so he'd have a long list of mourners when he died.

The thought made him cough in amusement, and he ignored the glare that Granger sent his way.

They stood around the gates of the cemetery when it had ended. Potter and Granger, realizing that they were in no way welcome, left immediately. Draco assumed it was back to the Ministry, considering it was nine in the morning on a Monday.

Standing around with the other three, Draco was at a loss. He stared into the faces of his friends intensely.

"Goyle," Draco clasped the hand of his old friend, a small smile gracing his lips.

"Malfoy." Greg returned his smile with a goofy grin of his own.

Goyle, Draco noted, still had that slightly dumb look that meant he hadn't gained any intelligence since school. He'd lost some weight in recent months, but it was still the same Greg - flabby jowls and meat-paws for hands.

Draco nodded silently to Pansy who swayed towards him, as if she were about to latch onto his arm. Teary women were definitely not something Draco enjoyed dealing with and he maneuvered himself to stand in between Greg and Blaise. Funny, standing like this reminded him of Hogwarts. How things had changed. It was a pity they hadn't reconnected after the war except for the rare pureblood society galas.

The four of them huddled under a conjured shelter. They made small talk until the awkwardness enveloped them all and one by one, each of them Apparated away.

It was funny, really. They say that a death brings people together. Flint's death was melancholy, at best. The circumstances of his demise were gruesome, but Draco pushed that to the back of his mind. Glancing once more at the tall, silent statues that littered the cemetery, he Disapparated, his mind already back to the investigation at hand.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"Blimey, 'Mione. It's been ages since I last saw you," Ron said through a mouth full of mashed potato.

"I _know_." Ginny arched an eyebrow in her direction, her fork loaded with sausages pausing halfway to her mouth. "Where have you been hiding?"

Hermione, not feeling quite hungry due to the fact that she hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, could only shrug half-heartedly. She hardly ever ate when she'd had a long night. There'd always be a walnut-sized feeling of pressure below her ribs and she almost always felt sick when she was in the presence of food.

This was no exception, even if it were the Weasley's fortnightly Sunday lunch.

Molly had sent her a severe look but complied when all Hermione had asked for was a hot chocolate and a biscuit.

"Work, mostly," Hermione replied soberly, sipping on her drink. Well, it was a half-truth. Ministry work and her book research _was_ part of why she'd been getting four hours of sleep every night. She didn't mention Malfoy's coercion to write up his Muggle contracts or the flaying murders.

"That explains it," Ginny, who hadn't begun to show yet, grinned at her. "I Floo'd your apartment a few times but you were never home."

"I bet the couch we bought her last year for Christmas is actually in her office," Ron snorted.

Hermione pinked at that, because the couch _was_ at her office.

She let them all assume she'd been spending all her free time at the Ministry, but Harry knew differently. She'd actually been at Godshill twice this week, grateful that Malfoy was never in sight. Each time, the two would settle down at the oak table and stare at the ink wall, scratching out notes and bouncing ideas off one another.

Hermione would have been amused at the idea that two thirds of her life currently revolved around the blond git, had it not been for the fact that she flatly wasn't pleased _at all_ with the situation. Still, for Harry's sake, she was determined to play her part.

Arthur smiled kindly at her, his eyes barely visible above the Sunday Prophet. "That's our Hermione, always working hard."

Harry, who was sitting across from her, was staring at her intensely and she kicked him under the table.

Hermione was a big fan of the Weasley's Sunday lunches. Directly after the war, it'd been weekly – something Hermione attributed to everyone's desperate need for normality, comfort and the generous light-hearted banter between them.

The first couple of lunches were disastrous.

Twice during the meal, Molly had burst into tears. The first was when she'd accidentally set twelve plates at the table, intending to feed the complete nine Weasley's, Hermione, Harry and Fleur. Fred had left a gaping hole that couldn't be filled. The second time she'd been reduced to tears was when Harry had simply asked her to pass the bread rolls. Molly's tears were contagious; everyone had quickly dissolved into mourning and the agony of loss had flowed freely.

They'd changed the weekly get-togethers to a fortnightly event two years ago, mainly because everyone had become too busy post-war to sacrifice four or five hours every Sunday to catch up.

Secretly, selfishly, Hermione preferred it that way. Not only did it impede on her time in working on her projects, but also it had become painfully difficult to be in George's presence.

The Weasley twin had never been the same ever since Fred died.

Hermione felt terrible for George, but it was so much harder to be around him. She never knew what to say to make him feel okay, or if he even _wanted_ her comfort.

Ron had taken over the running of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes a year ago when it became glaringly obvious that George no longer had the knack for managing it. He'd lost his spark, his motivation and drive.

The classic products they'd invented during their Hogwarts years were still bestsellers and kept the company more than afloat, but the recent additions to their product line were… half-hearted. Hermione flinched at her thoughts. "Half-hearted" was the perfect way to describe George - his other half had perished.

"Look at her, she's miles away."

"Probably thinking up another Ministry department to sprout from the ground."

"Or a miraculous cure for prat behaviour in children. Imagine that? No Malfoy's, Crabbe's and Goyle's, _ever_."

At the mention of Malfoy's name, Hermione's thoughts and eyes flickered back to present company and she blushed, apologising.

"Don't mind them, dear." Molly patted her on the shoulder as she refilled her mug of hot chocolate. She shot sharp looks in Harry and Ginny's direction, pausing to swat Ron on the head.

When she left the Burrow several hours later, it was with a lighter mind and a grateful heart. As she usually did, she quietly thanked the Powers That Be that she had met such wonderful people and that she was a part of something so amazing.

Marcus Flint sailed fleetingly through her mind and Hermione shivered when she reached her apartment. She fervently hoped all of her friends would never suffer a similar fate.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

The second skin arrived in a manner that was worse than the first.

Maybe it was ultimately worse than her discovery of Flint's skin because of the fact that Harry had braced her for bad news. Maybe the arrival of the second skin was worse because it was someone she had recently seen in the flesh. Maybe it was because of how Malfoy had reacted, or the way she had responded in turn.

It was nearing ten in the evening and she had been resting her eyes from the parchment in her hand – an interview for her book that she had conducted with Mafalda Hopkirk earlier that afternoon.

Hermione had surprised herself that night and, instead of Apparating back to her apartment, she found herself outside the case room. Too tired to analyse why she'd gone to Godshill without Harry, Hermione entered the darkened room and was relieved when the house seemed to be empty. Hermione had been squinting at the tiny print on the parchment when loud banging on the other side of the house interrupted her.

Frowning, she set down the parchment.

A moment later, Malfoy burst into the room and Hermione veritably gasped at his appearance. His hair was loose around his face, dishevelled, robes were in disarray and his eyes were suspiciously bright. He was screaming.

"_FUCK!"_

Hermione jumped up at his roar and backed away, frightened.

It was only then that she noticed what he carried in his right hand and her heart plummeted into her stomach like a lead weight thrown from space.

It was a trunk.

A trunk similar to the one she had used at Hogwarts.

A trunk that eerily resembled the one that Flint's skin had been folded into.

"_FUUUCKK!"_

Blinking rapidly, breaths coming in gasps now, Hermione approached Draco slowly. She'd never seen him like this before, this emotional, human side of him and it shocked her. She was used to his hate but – this wasn't hate… what she was witnessing was absolutely _agony_.

Hermione was unsure as to what she should do. Her eyes flickered between Malfoy and the trunk in frozen dread. She was afraid. She was so damn _scared_ of what was in the trunk and dread travelled like electricity up and down her nerve endings. She wished she wasn't there to witness this.

"M-Malfoy," she stammered, a hand raised in alarm. She didn't want to touch him but –

Wild eyed and out of control, Malfoy threw the trunk at their inked wall with massive force, strangled growls escaping his lips. Hermione reacted instinctively, without thought for consequences. She ran to him and grabbed the back of his jumper, tugging him away.

The trunk had sprung open in the violence with which he had flung it at the wall and its contents were splayed out in the open.

They both stared, frozen, at the skin that had flopped half in, half out of the case.

Hermione couldn't breathe, couldn't get the image out of her head. It was exactly like the first time, except the sanitised walls and bright lights of the Auror evidence rooms wasn't here to protect her from the gruesome horror on the floor.

In the soft light cast by her fire, the skin looked soft, almost like dress fabric.

Hermione recoiled at that thought, staggering back and pulling Malfoy with her until their backs hit the opposite wall where they huddled together, sinking down to the timber floors.

"Fuck," Malfoy moaned, the sound coming out strangled.

Hermione could feel the hysterical sobs climb her windpipe like a Devil's Snare, and she fought the need to hyperventilate. She scrabbled weakly for her wand, fumbling. She stood slowly on shaky legs, waving her wand at the trunk. Immediately, the skin folded neatly back into its container, snapping shut with a resounding click.

"Granger." Malfoy rasped, gripping so hard at her ankle that she winced in pain.

"I'll – I'll be back, Malfoy. I need… Harry," she said dazedly. She could still see the closed chest in her peripheral vision and she fought the bile rising in her throat.

"Granger," he whispered hoarsely.

Hermione glanced down at him, noting the look in his eyes. He must already know who it is, she thought, horrified. "I'll be back," she repeated, voice stronger.

She stumbled outside, mind reeling. Crossing her fingers that her state of mind wouldn't affect her Apparition, she disappeared from Godshill with a sharp crack, appearing inside her office at the Ministry an instant later.

Hyperventilating now, Hermione ran through the darkened offices in search of Harry.

_Please,_ she thought desperately. _Please be working late tonight._

The entire floor was dark, deserted, and Hermione cursed. Steadying herself against a wall, she wiped her sweaty palms on her office blouse just as the shakes began to claim her. The shock and the terror of what was to come crowded her brain, and she couldn't _think_. There was no time to head to Ottery St. Catchpole, to Harry's home.

Loathe him as she did, Hermione would never have subjected _anyone_ to the terror Malfoy must be feeling, alone in his house with that trunk. Grasping desperately for her happiest memory of her, Ron and Harry, she pointed her wand and screamed, "_Expecto Patronum!"_

The light that poured from her wand was like a soft, drowsy mist, and Hermione cursed in despair. Rooting around in her brain for a different scene, Hermione furiously thought of her _happiest_ memory.

Her parents. When she travelled to Australia. When she returned their memories intact a month after the Battle of Hogwarts. The tears of relief, joy and heartbreak, the elation and euphoria she had felt at feeling her father's arms around her once more.

"_Expecto Patronum!"_

This time, an otter made of blinding white light burst forth like a bullet.

"Go!" she screamed, watching for only a moment as her Patronus disappeared from sight, taking it's comforting light with it. Hermione ran back into her office. Her foot had only just touched the doormat identical to the one in her apartment when she Apparated away.

She found Draco curled in on himself in the same spot as she had left him.

"M-Malfoy?"

He raised his head slowly and Hermione gasped.

His eyes had darkened to a stormy gray that had her crumbling to her knees. His eyes were fathomless, his face blank, but the rigid set of his shoulders spoke volumes of his emotion.

"Malfoy," she whispered, her hand raised warily in the air. "H-Harry's coming, okay? Harry will be here soon, he'll fix this."

He didn't acknowledge her words, eyes flickering to the trunk. He stared at it and Hermione witnessed the dawning fury that slowly seeped into his face.

She heard a sharp crack from outside and she screamed, "Harry!"

The pounding of feet could be heard before the door splintered inwards, obliterated by the force of Harry's Reducto. He burst into the room, wand drawn and eyes fierce.

Hermione almost sagged with relief. Harry was here. Harry was _here_.

"Hermione!"

"Harry," she croaked. "R-remove it."

"Wha—" He caught sight of the trunk against the far wall. Hermione watched him stiffen as the situation sunk in.

Harry jerked his wand angrily and the trunk flew out into the hallway, away from sight.

Hermione began to cry, not realizing her fists were bunched in the back of Malfoy's jumper. He hadn't moved from his spot on the floor. She met Harry's eyes for a long moment, conveying her fear and anxiety. Together, they both glanced at the blond haired man.

They watched silently as Malfoy rose slowly to his feet, forcing Hermione to let go, her hand remaining claw-like by her side.

"Who… Who was it?" Harry asked haltingly.

Hermione remained on the floor, looking up at them. Malfoy's face was shaded in darkness, but his eyes weren't the stormy gray she had seen earlier. They were a harsh granite, unrelenting and brimming with rage.

"Goyle," he whispered. "Gregory Goyle."

Hermione flinched.

Harry blinked rapidly towards the hallway where the trunk lay. "We – We just…"

"Flint's funeral last week. Yes."

"Merlin," Harry breathed.

Malfoy gazed at Harry, his cold eyes hardening. "Looks like we have new evidence."

Hermione hid her face in her hands.

Not another one. She knew without seeing up close that Goyle's body – his _shell_ – would be exactly like Flint's; perfectly removed, horridly marked and grisly in appearance. Unable to fight it off any longer, Hermione stumbled out of the room, through the shattered doorway and into the freezing night air.

She remained kneeling in the grass long after her retching had subsided, and her breaths had turned from ragged gasps to soft whimpers.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

**A/N: **Sad-face. So many Story Alerts and Favourites for Fathomless but only 4 Reviews.

Also, I made a tiny change to Chapter 3. Initially I had Lucius serving a heavy 30 year Azkaban sentence but I lessened it to 5 because I've just finished re-reading DH and my love for Narcissa made me feel super sorry for her, had the Fathomless situation been hers, that is.

In reference to that change, I thought I'd just mention that I do _try_ to stay in canon (EWE aside). One canon point, however, that I've never agreed with is the fact that Lucius got off scot-free after Voldemort's reign ended only on the fact that he, along with his family, defected. One 'good' deed doesn't forgive a history of violence. So, sorry Luce, ol' pal but you're goin' ta jail.


	6. Acceleration

**A/N:** Okay, so I'm learning something that all other fanfic writers have probably experienced, and that is to _never promise to update and give a certain date_, because it doesn't happen (unless you're fabulous). This chapter was hard to write, and Fathomless isn't actually going along with the chapter plans I'd mapped out. Still, I'll continue with whatever my brain farts out, thus here we have Chapter 6!

**Disclaimer**: Diddly-squat is all I know. Mhmm.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

**Chapter 6 – Acceleration**

The first thought that flitted into Hermione's mind when she woke was that Gregory Goyle was an innocent. She blinked up at her ceiling, confused as to where the thought came from and berated herself as she reached to her wand to turn off the buzzing alarm.

Clever Crookshanks, who was usually indifferent, had sensed that there was something off with his master and had taken to cuddling up beside Hermione instead of his usual place on the foot of her bed.

She nuzzled Crooks' tawny fur, sighing deeply as she let her thoughts settle, feeling the cats' purring rumbles echo into her chest. She'd had a nightmare last night, but it wasn't a bad one.

Hermione sat on the end of her bed, playing with the sleeve of her oversized jumper. No, she concluded. Goyle wasn't _completely_ innocent, he was just as horrible as Malfoy had been in Hogwarts and had mindlessly, idiotically, followed in the footsteps of his father.

But in the skinning murders? Was Goyle innocent?

Hermione bit her lip, sure that he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She had been standing directly across from him at Flint's funeral, and she had stared. Four years hadn't changed him and Hermione was shocked to think that he looked like a nice person when there wasn't a scowl or glare present on his face.

Hermione inhaled deeply, calming her thoughts. She felt sad for Goyle and Flint. Their deaths were useless, aimed to deliver a message that they still hadn't figured out. She sighed resignedly, headed for the kitchen for her usual morning glass of water and filled Crooks' bowl for the day.

Hermione stayed under the scalding spray of her shower longer than she'd expected. It was a habit she'd never been able to shake off, but the constant thrum of water, the heat and the solitude always induced Hermione's brain to whirr in overtime. She emerged from her shower with prune-like fingers, her thoughts still in turmoil.

Really, they'd had a few weeks to work on the murders already but Hermione felt they hadn't made any progress at all. She shivered at the uncomfortable niggling in the back of her mind that they were surely missing _something_.

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione paused in the act of buttoning her jacket and stilled, listening.

"Miss – Miss Granger? Are you there?" A timid knock followed the hesitant questions.

Realising it was her landlord; Hermione smoothed back her wet hair, finished buttoning up and answered the door. She was expecting Dickson but not the tall blond who was standing directly behind him.

"M-Miss Granger," Dickson stammered. "I'm sorry, I said I wouldn't b-but he drew his wand and –"

"It's fine Dickson." Hermione pinned the blond with a stern look only to receive a neutral stare in return.

Hermione waited until her bumbling landlord had disappeared down the fire escape before she turned toward Malfoy, accusation in her eyes. "You _didn't,_" she said, sounding appalled.

"I most certainly did."

Hermione stared at him warily, wondering why she felt so unsettled in her own home. He was dressed neatly in a dark grey suit underneath his wizarding robes, and Hermione guessed it was what he usually wore to work. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

"I wouldn't have gone to so much trouble to… _encourage_ your landlord to bring me here if there was a fucking button in the elevator that brought me to this floor." He scowled over his shoulder to the stairs where Dickson had disappeared.

Hermione rolled her eyes, not budging from her front door. "You didn't have to terrorise Dickson, he's a sweet man!"

"He's a Squib."

"… What's your point? There's a reason why there's no top floor button on the lift. What was so urgent that you had to come here?"

"You…" he paused for a moment, weighing his words. "You haven't been back to Godshill."

That stopped Hermione short and she her anger faltered into defence. "It's only been five days," she frowned.

"That's a lifetime considering the new evidence we've got." Draco eyed her coldly.

Hermione felt awkward, standing there with her wet hair and stockinged feet. She hadn't gone back to Godshill since they'd discovered Goyle's remains in the trunk.

If Hermione were honest with herself, she'd admit that their discovery of the second skin had shaken her. It was messy, emotional and she hadn't wanted to see Malfoy after the event. She hadn't wanted to be in the same room where the warm light of the fire had fallen over the skin, making it appear harmless.

"What do you want?"

"Potter and I have begun surveillance at my parents' estate." The blond was momentarily distracted when Crookshanks padded into view, tail raised high. Malfoy stared at the cat appraisingly before Crookshanks, deciding he wasn't important, meandered from the hallway.

"I know," she said stiffly. She'd been getting her information on the case second-hand via Harry since she'd refused to return to Godshill. "And?"

"Potter's had to skip out of surveillance next weekend. The Weaselette's going to St. Mungo's for checkups and he wanted to be there."

"Let me guess," Hermione rolled her eyes in irritation as she glanced at the wall clock in the hallway. "I'm the lucky witch who'll have to do it with you."

"Indeed."

"You didn't come all this way into Muggle London just to tell me I'm scheduled for field work, Malfoy." Hermione frowned at him, itching to shut the door in his face so she could sit down and have breakfast.

She watched him straighten, his expression shutting down. A thought flew into her head, unbidden, of her mother scolding her for being a rude, unamiable hostess.

She cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable. "Would… would you like to come in?"

Hermione hoped fervently that he'd refuse her offer and was mildly surprised when he nodded stiffly in acceptance.

Hermione hadn't gone five steps down her hallway when his voice called her back.

"Granger? A little help here?"

She turned, a frown pulling her eyebrows down. Malfoy remained standing outside her door, a perplexed look on his face when he couldn't take a step into her flat.

Hermione's irritation quickly turned into embarrassment and she took out her wand. She didn't miss the sudden wary look on Malfoy's face when she pointed it at him and quickly muttered "_Sino Draco Malfoy."_

He followed her into her flat, a safe distance behind her. Once they were in her kitchen, Hermione didn't fight the urge to fiddle. She set the kettle to boil, checked the refrigerator, drew her curtains open and all the while she could see Malfoy intensely appraising her living space.

Flustered and not prepared for company, Hermione quickly shuffled away the stack of books that was sitting on her kitchen counter. She cringed when she saw she'd used a butter knife as a bookmark, and hastily moved it aside.

"I've never heard of such a ward."

"It's a modified area spell," Hermione replied absently, chewing on her lower lip. "I did some research on Vampire behaviour a few years ago. They can only enter a home after they've been expressly invited, you see. I can rescind the invitation any time I want with the _Abstergo_ incantation."

"Why don't you use identification wards instead?"

"I could, but this spell bars anyone and anything, magical, Muggle, human or not."

She glanced into his face and saw the raised eyebrow. It hit her with a jolt when she realised how isolated and anti-social she must seem to him, but flapped the thought away. There was nothing wrong with liking privacy.

She almost dropped her teacup when she realised she hadn't said a single mean thing to him, asides from her initial rudeness at the door. When had this happened?

"I've … Um, I've almost finished your contracts." It sounded stupid to her own ears. He did nothing but nod curtly, the shuttered look on his face as stony as ever. "Would you like some… tea?"

He smirked at her, raising his eyebrow. "No need for pretence, Granger. We're not friends."

"Well, it's called being polite," she immediately retorted. "Obviously something you're a stranger to."

"Again, we're not friends."

"Business arrangement, right."

"I have… something to ask of you," he asked slowly.

Hermione, from habit, was instantly wary. "What is it this time?"

"Don't worry, it's not another agreement I'll 'slap' in your face. I need access to your files in the Department of Research and Growth. The Ministry Archives."

"You can easily apply for a visitor's day pass for that."

"…I need access to the _restricted_ files."

Hermione's frown deepened. "That's top level clearance, Malfoy. What for?"

"I'm going to look into spells or objects that can cause the… murders."

"I've already begun doing that," she objected, reluctant to give him free reign to her department.

"You're not fast enough," he snapped. "If I continue the research, at least I can get more done. I don't have work restrictions like you and Potter."

"What about Malfoy Enterprises?"

"Taken care of." He cocked an eyebrow arrogantly at her. "Well?"

Hermione chewed on her lower lip. If she gave him access, it'd mean he could go through _any_ of the Ministry's files. If Shacklebolt discovered she'd given _anybody_ access to the archives, it was a potential riot in the making. Hell, Shacklebolt wouldn't just have her job, he'd have her hide and make sure she'd regret it for the rest of her life.

"There's protected Ministry files in those Archives, Malfoy. I can't just give you access."

"I'm not going to go snooping into the Ministry's dirty laundry," he said, irritated. "Just the reference material on the Dark Arts."

The idea of Malfoy snooping through those books caused a dark shiver to shoot down Hermione's spine. She stiffened perceptibly and he didn't miss the way she gripped at her teacup.

"Merlin's _sake_, Granger! What do I need to do to convince you I'm not a Death Eater?"

She stared at him warily. "Still, the information you could unearth could… change things."

"You must have read some things in those books that were interesting. I don't see you freely practicing what you've discovered either, so stop thinking that I'll take what information I find and practice it on the next Muggle."

"Fine." Hermione strengthened her resolve. "But I need to be present whenever you're in the archives."

He regarded her silently, eyes cold and calculating. "You're right not to trust me," he said finally. Hermione wasn't sure if that was an admission of guilt or if his simple response held … what was it exactly? Respect? Impossible.

"I'd do exactly the same if you were Harry."

Malfoy scoffed, disbelieving. "Right."

She cleared her throat, getting up from the table and pouring out her lukewarm tea. "If that's all you need, Malfoy, I really need to be going."

He had remained standing throughout their conversation, but made no move to leave. "I… was hoping I could start that today."

"Today?"

"Time is of the essence, Granger."

She nodded stiffly in agreement. "Wait a moment, I'll just gather my things."

Hermione left him in the kitchen and fetched a pair of sensible black heels, her handbag and several parchments she'd brought home from work. Hermione paused to catch her mental breath in the quiet of her room and she sat on the edge of her bed.

The weight of responsibility lay heavy on her shoulders, almost as if it were tangible. She stretched her neck miserably and fought the urge to just lie down and take a nap. Her mother had always said that there was nothing a nap couldn't fix, and it was something Hermione had always taken for granted.

It was probably why she slept less than anybody she knew, too. Why sleep when there were so many other things she could be doing instead?

When they'd discovered Flint's remains in the trunk, Hermione had felt that she was an outsider looking in, like she was reading someone else's story in a book she'd plucked off the shelf. When Goyle had arrived in a trunk unexpectedly, the desensitized feeling of experiencing the situation in third person had been ripped from her, and reality had sunk in.

Things were getting serious and Hermione despaired.

_Malfoy, Harry and me,_ she thought. They'd successfully kept the murders from the press, but how long would that last? Right now it was just the three of them, the ones with the power and the responsibility to bring the culprit down.

Hermione wondered whether Narcissa and Malfoy Enterprises were reason enough to keep the whole sordid ordeal a secret. Surely, with more manpower, they'd be able to solve this quicker?

She made her way out of her room and met Malfoy in the hallway, noting his sombre expression. She led him to the doormat beside her front door and gingerly held out her arm for Side-Along Apparition.

The pair disappeared with a pop, arriving inside her office an instant later.

Hermione could feel the stares of her officemates as they walked through the second floor and she couldn't stop the fierce blush that appeared on her cheeks. She ignored the heated, raking gazes from several women that were directed to the man behind her and she fought the urge to roll her eyes and bark at her employees.

She walked quickly, annoyed that he kept up easily with her pacing – damn his long legs. They arrived eventually to a set of large double doors and Hermione placed her wand in an identification orb. She fiddled with her robes as her wand was registered and the heavy wooden doors slowly swung open to admit them.

Hermione summoned some files from her office and as they flew towards her, she sent off a lilac memo to Viri to let her know she'd be in the Ministry library.

"You have two hours, Malfoy."

"Let's begin, then."

In the quiet of the archives, Hermione couldn't seem to shake off the feeling of discomfort that had lingered ever since Malfoy had appeared on her doorstep. Usually, the musky smell of the aged books, the dim lighting and the mysterious and secret atmosphere within the archives always did well to soothe her nerves, but today was different.

She peeked at him from the corner of her eye and she couldn't help but think that this was very reminiscent of their Hogwarts days, especially during fourth and fifth years.

She'd avoided him like the plague, but the library was _her_ special place. She'd been infuriated when she discovered in third year that it seemed to be a spot Malfoy also frequented as she'd spied him often, tucked away in the darkest corner. Hermione had been hesitant at first, but when all it seemed he would do was to fling nasty words and lingering sneers in her direction, she cast it off as being harmless. Petty juvenile behaviour, she could handle, but with Malfoy you never knew what he would do next.

As Hermione watched him now, she noted the faint purple circles under his eyes and the gray tinge to his skin. Hmm. It seemed that she wasn't the only one losing sleep over the murders.

She mentally slapped a hand against her forehead, feeling awful. Of course Malfoy would be affected! The trunks were being sent to _him_, after all. Hermione felt the pinpricks of irritation shoot down her spine. Wow, had she really been so selfish to drown herself in her own misgivings, without the thought for the man sitting three feet away from her?

Hermione caught her thoughts again. Really, why should she care? He'd done a great job of constantly reminding her that this was simply a _business arrangement_.

But how could she remain detached? People were dying. Hermione hadn't known them well, had actually hated Goyle with a passion, but she truly believed nobody deserved their fates.

Except maybe Voldemort. And Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Would you like to take a photo, Granger?"

Hermione jumped, ripped from her thoughts and she met his gray eyes. "Sorry, was I staring?"

"Rather intently, I was starting to burn up thinking you were shooting fire from your eyes," he drawled.

"Malfoy… are – are you okay?"

His eyes hardened in the dim light. "Do I look _okay_ to you?"

"I –" She took a moment. He actually looked terrible, but his eyes were threatening. "Yes. You look okay."

Properly chastised, Hermione returned to her papers and shuffled herself so her back was to him. Really, sometimes her thoughts got her into too much trouble. This time, she was feeling out of her depth, as if she were in a sea of confusion.

Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, Hermione resolved to return to Godshill. There was still far too many unanswered questions, too many what ifs.

And being Hermione, that was _never_ a good thing.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"We've been looking at this all wrong," Hermione announced as soon as she arrived in the case room the next day.

Malfoy, who'd been seated at his usual armchair by the fire, turned to stare at her as she set her books down. Hermione understood his surprise – it was the first time she'd set foot in Godshill ever since the night Malfoy had received Goyle's remains. Harry, who was sitting at the table, grinned brightly at her and she returned the look with relief.

She marched to the inked wall and gazed at the new information Malfoy had written there pertaining to Gregory Goyle. She frowned at the placement of the three names of Flint, Goyle and Malfoy and pulled out her wand.

With a wave, the information reorganized itself. Now, with the newly revised wall, Malfoy's name was boldly printed in the centre instead of Flint's.

Two copies of the killer's messages remained close to the names they'd been sent with. The second message, the one that came with Goyle, simply read:

_You._

It wasn't much to go on, but it was all they had.

"We were the last people to see him."

Hermione's train of thought was broken with Malfoy's soft-spoken statement. She swallowed thickly at the implication.

"Does Goyle have no family, either?"

"His mother's at St. Mungo's receiving shock treatment. She's been there since we informed her of his… death."

Hermione frowned. "What did you tell her? I thought we were supposed to keep it secret."

"We told her enough."

She didn't want to know how that conversation panned out, and instead she returned to her notes. Over the past week, Harry and Malfoy had been hard at work with any spare time they had in digging up Goyle's background. It was hard, considering their jobs required their attention, but Hermione was pleased with the amount of information they'd gathered.

"It's centred around Malfoy, for one. Another thing is that Goyle's death brings up some really important connections for us." Hermione chewed the end of her quill in thought.

"They're both ex-Slytherins," Harry spoke suddenly.

"Yes, but more importantly, they were both sons of Death Eaters."

"Okay. The picture's becoming clearer now," Harry said, as they all sat in chairs facing their case wall.

Hermione nodded, mind whirring as she absorbed the information. A sudden thought entered her head and she gasped.

"Oh Merlin, what if we've gotten it wrong from the start?"

"What do you mean?" asked Harry.

"We were thinking that only someone truly evil, like Voldemort, could do these things. But the killer is offing Slytherins who were blood related to Death Eaters. What if it's someone who was fighting _against_ Voldemort during the war?"

Harry and Malfoy both froze at her revelation.

"You mean a rogue," Malfoy whispered hoarsely.

"Someone who's taking justice into their own hands," Harry said soberly, slowly lowering his quill.

"But why wait four years?" Restless, Malfoy got to his feet and began to pace. "Why not back then? When the Death Eaters were still running rampant?"

"Who knows?" Hermione said. "Maybe it took the murderer that long to learn whatever spell it is that's skinning them. Or obtaining the object that could _do_ this."

"That's another thing, we still haven't figured out if it's a spell or a Dark item that's killing them." Harry frowned intensely at the wall, jaw clenching.

"I checked the Ministry research into dark artefacts with Granger yesterday. There wasn't much," Malfoy said, disdain evident on his face.

Hermione glared indignantly. "I'll have you know that the collection at the Ministry is the most extensive in Wizarding Britain."

"Really?" Malfoy turned his piercing gray gaze upon the witch and he watched the fire in her eyes turn into doubt. "Then you should see the collection I have at Malfoy Manor."

Malfoy ignored the look of surprise and curiosity in Granger's eyes and instead turned back to Potter. "What of the remaining Death Eaters?"

"Rabastan Lestrange was captured just two months ago," Harry said slowly. "He was the last of the outstanding Death Eaters at large. Five weeks later, Malfoy receives Flint's body."

"That's too convenient to be just a coincidence." Hermione pulled out her leather-bound notebook, chewing on the end of her quill.

"They're connected then," Malfoy dropped into a chair tiredly.

"Still, we can't set this in stone just yet. Two ex-Slytherin deaths doesn't make it a strong _modus operandi_." Hermione, ever practical, reminded them.

"Are we really going to wait until it becomes a serial killing spree?" Harry asked, surprised etched over his face.

"I didn't say that, Harry. I just meant that we shouldn't close our minds to all the possibilities. This might be a red herring."

Malfoy frowned. "A what?"

"Nothing, it's a Muggle thing. I'm just saying that we don't want to over-speculate and chase a lead that ends up being a diversion."

They were all silent for some time, each lost in their individual thoughts. It was Harry who broke the quiet.

"Hermione," he said, his eyes suddenly alarmed. "What if… what if it was someone from the Order? If we're following the idea that the murderer is purposefully killing sons of Death Eaters, it could be someone we've worked with."

Hermione stiffened in shock. Merlin, that idea was too hard to comprehend! That meant that _anyone_ could be the culprit. Her mind flickered over the faces of the Order members, of Ministry officials, and anyone who wasn't on the dark side during the war.

"Harry, that's hundreds of people."

Harry turned to Malfoy, who'd been brooding in his chair. "It's something to do you with Malfoy."

"I haven't done anything!" Malfoy said sharply.

"Lately," Hermione mumbled to herself and was rewarded with a venomous look from the blond.

"We made the mistake the first time around and we ransacked Flint's life. We forgot _who_ the trunk was sent to."

Silently, Hermione and Harry gazed at Malfoy who remained stoic in his chair. Their case had just taken a twist for the worse, and Hermione was afraid. Who could it be? Her speculations had just opened up their field of suspects from few to _hundreds_.

Feeling a headache begin at the edges of her vision, Hermione sighed and dropped into an armchair, disheartened and distressed.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Hermione sat up suddenly, disoriented and unaware of her surroundings.

Sounds of rapid spellfire and muffled yells floated back to her from outside and she was instantly alert, her wand held tightly in her clammy hands.

She was momentarily confused as to why she was on the sofa in Godshill, but brushed the thought away when she spied the large tome she'd been poring over before she'd fallen asleep. The warmth of the fire and the dim lighting had lulled her to sleep, she guessed.

She paused, listening intently, and ran outside where the echoing blasts and yells were located. The sun was setting beautifully over the large hill to the west of the estate, but Hermione didn't even notice. Merlin, were they under attack?

Heart thumping and eyes wide, she sprinted out towards the copse of trees behind Malfoy's house, willing her eyes to adjust to the growing darkness.

The scene she stumbled upon only confused her more.

"Wh – What's happening!" she yelled through the drifting smoke from the flying spells.

Harry turned his dirt-smudged face to her, excitement in his eyes. He shot purple sparks into the air and the sounds of spellfire stopped.

Hermione stood stock still as her best friend walked – limped – towards her. "What's happening, Harry?"

Malfoy emerged through the smoke, in the same state of disarray. Hermione was surprised. He was wearing Muggle jeans that were dirt streaked and a chequered green and white button down shirt. She blinked stupidly at the pair as they cruised to a stop a few feet away.

"What's going on?"

Harry grinned tiredly and flopped to the ground. "We're training."

"For _what?"_

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Contingency plan."

"Is this – is this for the murders? You're expecting confrontation?"

"Goyle's trunk appeared literally minutes before I arrived at the Manor. Had I been there as it arrived, I know there would have been a fight." Malfoy wiped the sweat from his brow with an embroidered handkerchief he magically produced from his pocket and Hermione found it altogether ridiculous. Here he was dressed as a Muggle, dirty and sweaty, yet he still had a pristine bit of cloth tucked away in a pocket. It was just ridiculous.

"So, you're… training? With Harry?"

"Who better?"

"He's right Hermione. He brought it up just earlier while you were sleeping, and since I'm head of the Auror department, it's a fantastic idea!"

"Harry, when was the last time you actually fought? On the field? You know, in the thick of things?"

"It hasn't been that long," Harry protested. "Besides, it feels good to get back into it. I was beginning to feel rusty."

Hermione understood. Being a department head wasn't as flashy as it sounded, mostly you were bogged down with lots of paperwork. It was a position where you were a co-ordinator of human resources, rather than practical work.

She felt like an idiot, standing there with her wand drawn while the two men caught their breaths. Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked dazedly into the house.

They were training. Hermione felt another drop of reality fall into her well of fear.

If things weren't real to her before, they sure as hell were now.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

**A/N:** Eurgh, what a horrible chapter. I'm going to work on Chapter 7 and upload it as soon as possible so this doesn't seem like it's just a mindless filler (which.. hah, I feel it is).


	7. Tentative

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything, not even a single knut. I _do_ own a Slytherin tie, if that counts?

**A/N:** I had to churn this out quickly, especially after the last chapter. Thank you for the small round of reviews on the story so far, I'm still so uncertain whether or not I'm writing in the right direction or not. Hope you enjoy and please R&R!

**.**

* * *

><p><strong>.<strong>

**Chapter 7 - Tentative**

Once again, Draco found himself inside Hermione's apartment as he waited for her to get ready. He could hear her clamouring inside her bathroom, and instead he sat at her dining table, waiting patiently.

He observed her living space with interest, taking his time as he'd ignored it the first time he was in her flat. She lived simply, out of necessity. All of her furniture was functional and plain. He gazed from her pastel green walls to her worn out, and obviously much loved, armchair that sat before her fireplace. It was her personal belongings that cluttered every space that caught his eye.

On almost every single horizontal surface, were books. Loads of them. Some were open, others were stacked up in groups and he sidled up to a pile with interest. He saw that she had a mixture of both Muggle and wizarding books and he picked one up, wrinkling his nose in disdain as he removed the ratty piece of ribbon she had used as a bookmark.

Draco glanced down at the page she had been reading, and smirked when he saw it was a book on the history of the Hogwarts founders. He skimmed down a few passages to where her book had been marked, on Salazar Slytherin, and eventually set the book down when he realised it was a volume he'd already read and had a copy in his room at Godshill.

They say that how you live in your personal space is how your mind is ordered, and as Draco glanced around her living room and kitchen, he could see it was true for Hermione. Her flat, like her mind, was cluttered – full of information. It was messy, but there was an order to the chaos that Draco was surprised to find.

Draco was almost afraid of seeing her bedroom if it looked anything like her kitchen.

Her cat, that freakish ball of orange fuzz and fur, was thankfully nowhere to be seen. Draco had never been an animal kind of person and he shuddered at the thought of living with one.

She emerged from her bedroom ten minutes later, wildly curling hair damp and struggling to put her arms through a drab gray sweater. She was dressed casually in Muggle jeans, a familiar beaded bag slung over her shoulder and her wand holstered at her forearm.

Draco felt the smirk rising into his face when he saw that, even on weekends, Hermione had brought work home with her. She was juggling parchments in one hand and her journal in the other and Draco rolled his eyes as she struggled.

"Give me that," he said, grabbing for her journal.

She jerked back defensively. "I – oh, um.. no. Here, take my reports."

He raised an eyebrow but took the parchments from her outstretched hands, his impatience showing in the rigid set of his shoulders.

"Ready?"

"I've been waiting for twenty minutes," he said dryly.

"Well, I don't usually wake up until nine on a Saturday." She glared at him and together they walked into the hall. "I hope nobody's in at work today," she said worriedly.

"Why? Afraid that Ashley will fawn over me again?"

Hermione didn't bother correcting him, but yes, she didn't want Draco to rile up the girls again. Merlin, the last time he had been at D.R.a.G., Amanda _and_ Viri had fallen into giggling fits. They'd veritably tag-teamed Hermione and grilled her with questions on the 'ravishingly handsome man' that had emerged from her office.

Altogether, it had been a horrific experience, one that Hermione could have lived without. She motioned for him to go ahead into the hallway and wait by the doormat, and when he disappeared, Hermione plucked two apples from her fridge and a muesli bar.

The prat had woken her so early that she had skipped her shower. Instead, Hermione tied her hair back in a tight braid that trailed halfway down her back. Her leisurely Saturday breakfast was also skipped and Hermione grumbled.

"Why'd you have to come by so early, anyway?"

He smirked at her as he latched onto her arm. "I wanted to see if I would be able to interrupt any… moonlighting."

He had timed it perfectly, having the last word before she had Apparated.

She gasped and threw off his hand the moment they appeared inside her office. "For god's sake, Malfoy! You've been trying to convince me you're not the same stupid Slytherin git and you're not doing a good job of it!"

Hermione fought the fierce blush that came to her face, mortified. Malfoy shrugged nonchalantly, his expression slightly amused as he followed her to the archives.

"How can you possibly think of making jokes when we've got such bigger fish to fry?" Hermione whirled around to face him before the double doors of the archives, her finger raised in accusation.

The amused glint disappeared and his gray eyes flattened, hardened. "Didn't you know that laughter is the best medicine?"

Although his tone was light, his mouth had tightened and it was almost a grimace. It was an odd thing for him to say, and Hermione was sure he'd been set on saying something else but had changed his mind at the last minute. She frowned at him as her wand was registered and she pushed her way through.

Two hours later, Hermione stretched, glancing at the blond who was currently engrossed in a tome that looked too fragile to be handled.

"I've got to go," she said, standing and gathering the books to her chest to return them.

Malfoy's head snapped up in annoyance. "We've only just got here."

Hermione tapped her watch. "We've been here hours already, and I've got… an appointment."

He raised an eyebrow, glowering at her, but consented when she stood by the door waiting.

"Working around your schedule is becoming… a hindrance. Is there any other way?"

"I'll let you know the next time I'm free," she replied curtly. "Monday, come in while I'm at work. Don't come to my apartment, there's already enough gossipers on this floor without you riling them up."

Smirking arrogantly at her, he spun on his heel and left, leaving Hermione alone and very, very annoyed.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"Dad!"

Hermione launched herself into her father's outstretched arms and hugged him fiercely, breathing his unique scent of tree bark and cinnamon deeply. The pair hugged for an eternity before her mother demanded her attention and Hermione fought the tears that had sprung into her eyes.

"Hermione." Elizabeth Granger clutched at her daughter, her warm brown eyes crinkling in pleasure.

They entered the Granger's family home in Port Douglas – situated in the sunny state of Queensland, Australia. Elizabeth and Duke Granger had actually been hidden away in Brisbane during the War, but when Hermione had returned their memories to them, they had found that they loved living in Australia.

They had spent a few months together as a family, but eventually the time came to move on with life. Hermione had been torn at being separated yet _again_ with her parents, but she was at peace knowing she'd be able to visit them often.

Hermione had a long-standing Portkey assigned to her name that she could use at any time. Usually such international Portkeys were restricted for business use only, but considering that Ernie McMillan remembered her fondly from Hogwarts, he'd managed to pull a few strings.

"You've not been eating," her mother remarked when she sat herself down at the dining table.

"Or sleeping, it looks like."

Hermione shrugged sheepishly. "There's been some… difficulties."

"With the case you're working on? What's the latest developments?"

Hermione grinned at her father, smiling at the fact that his love for Muggle criminal investigation shows was still strong. "Dad, don't tell me you're still watching those shows?"

Duke grinned back at her. "They're good. Let's fix up some tea and you can tell us all about it."

Hermione loved moments like these. Funny, she'd been thinking about her parents more often than usual and she pinpointed the change from when Malfoy had first approached her.

She accepted the cup of tea from her father and gazed at her parents fondly when they took to the sofas in the living room. Elizabeth and Duke sat close together, knees touching. Hermione fervently hoped that she'd meet a man who loved her as much as Duke loved her mother.

She'd always looked up to her parents. They were intelligent, hardworking people who loved freely, without reserve. The magical world still boggled her parents, and Hermione often thought of what they went through when she'd received her Hogwarts letter.

Thank Merlin that McGonagall was there to hold their hands as they went through the interchange process. Without her old house head's presence and comfort, Hermione was sure she'd have said no and remained close to her parents.

Hermione cherished these moments. She Portkeyed back to Port Douglas at least once a month for a weekend - usually a weekend that didn't intersect with the Weasley's fortnightly lunch. She usually stayed over on the Saturday night, always had a lovely Sunday breakfast and lunch and returned back to England on the Sunday evening.

"How's Ron doing, dear?"

Hermione rolled her eyes at her mother. "Mum, we broke up years ago. We're just good friends now."

Elizabeth winked at her. "You know how they say that love is friendship set on fire, right?"

Her father chuckled and laid a hand on his wife's arm. "Leave her be, Liz. Our girl's got plenty of time."

"Not for the case," Hermione said ruefully. "We discovered a second body last week."

Her mother gasped, and Duke stilled in his seat. Hermione wanted so badly to relate to someone the details on _how_ Goyle's remains were found, but she'd spare her parents from the images.

"Several patterns have appeared, but they're completely opposite from one another, and we haven't moved forward much in terms of solving any of it."

Duke frowned. "You're not in danger are you?"

She smiled ruefully. "We're always in some kind of danger, dad. It's the prerequisite to living."

Hermione could feel her parents' worry for her like a thick cotton blanket. It was comforting to know she would always be loved by these two wonderful people, but she wouldn't needlessly allow them to worry. She brought her parents up to speed on the progress of the case and tried to hide her shock when her parents asked about Malfoy.

"How is he holding up?" Her father stared at her, well aware of the tension between his daughter and the ex-Slytherin.

Hermione shrugged helplessly. "Sometimes I feel that he's completely unaffected by what's happening. But then I see glimpses of another side of him that…"

"Scares you?" her mother finished.

Hermione nodded, chewing on her bottom lip.

Elizabeth frowned at her daughter. "Trust me when I say that anyone who _isn't_ affected by these murders is a monster."

Hermione had thought pretty much the same thing. "I know, mum. But it's hard to talk to someone when you're so used to be on the defensive."

"Ah, the old 'offence is the best defence' trick."

Hermione wouldn't have quite put it _that_ way, but it was basically the same thing. Her father had remained quiet in the past few minutes and when he spoke, Hermione felt relief.

"If you need to leave earlier than usual, we understand, love."

He was referring to her usual overnight stay. Hermione smiled, her heart blossoming with love for her parents.

"I know, dad. I was hoping to stay for dinner at least, then I really need to get back."

Patting her knee, her mother stood to give her another hug before they all trooped into the kitchen to prepare a feast.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"Granger, I need more time with the restricted Ministry files. I feel that I'm onto something, but your stupid notion of constantly shadowing me is confining."

"I told you before, Malfoy, I'm not giving you free reign over the Ministry files."

"I won't do anything rash. I won't do any snooping," he said slowly, not breaking the fierce eye contact between them.

"What is it you've found anyway? I can help you."

He fought the need to scoff. "Yes, you probably can, but with your other obligations you don't have the time."

"I can _make_ time."

"And I can't live by your hours, Granger. I assure you it'll be for the case."

She hesitated, eyeing him with mistrust. There was a _lot_ that could go wrong if he even stepped one toe out of line.

"You're asking me to… trust you."

"You make it sound like I'm evil," he said bitterly.

The words stuck in her throat but the moment they escaped from her mouth, Hermione knew she'd regret them later. "Because you are."

She witnessed an emotion spear into Malfoy's face for a split second before his face hardened and his eyes were narrowed into lethal slits.

"I'd have thought that you, Gryffindor's princess, could see things a little differently after the war. You accuse me of prejudice but the only person who I see who can't seem to _let go _of the past here is you. Even Potter accepts me!"

"Don't bring Harry into this!"

"Or what? Am I sullying his good name by uttering it in your presence? Am I unworthy to refer to him?"

"Things changes," she said softly. "But people don't."

"I beg to differ." Draco straightened, glaring at her through narrowed eyes. "Things change because _people _change."

He left without another word and Hermione waited until his angry footsteps receded down the hallway into silence. Hermione let out the breath she'd been holding shakily, her thoughts and feelings in a confused jumble.

When had she become so bitter?

And when had _he_ become so…

Merlin, she wasn't the bad guy in this situation, so how was it he was able to make her feel as if she'd just kicked a puppy?

She blinked at the book that was open in her lap, the words blurring on the page. She threw it aside and got to her feet, willing her pounding heart to still. Slowly, Hermione padded to where Malfoy had disappeared.

It was with shock that Hermione realised she'd never ventured beyond the outer hall and the adjoining bathroom in his home in Godshill. Her curiosity peaked when she entered his kitchen and dining room.

He was nowhere in sight but she glanced around, noticing the lack of knick-knacks and wall hangings. The rooms didn't have that essential 'lived-in' feel, and Hermione thought the off-white walls and expensive furnishings fitted Malfoy's personality well.

She wandered deeper into his house and found him in his study, deep in thought with his back to her. Hermione was glad he hadn't been in his bedroom or anywhere else upstairs.

"Malfoy," she began softly. He gave no indication that he'd heard her, but she continued anyway. "You're good at making deals, so I have one for you."

His study smelt nice, the soft scents inside triggering a memory within her that Hermione couldn't quite grasp. She opened her mouth again to speak when she glanced around the room and she jerked with surprise. Three of the four walls were bookshelves, studded with spines of new and aged volumes. The fourth had a small window overlooking the hill to the west of the house. Hermione cleared her throat and ploughed on when he inclined his head in her direction.

"I'll give you… access to the Ministry archives, without my supervision. But I want something in exchange."

"Unfortunately there are no cliffs nearby for me to jump off, Granger." His eyes were narrowed, face tight but his voice was neutral.

"I – what? I don't want you to _kill yourself!_" she cried furiously. Merlin, is that what he really thought of her?

"Funny, I'd thought otherwise. What is it you want?" Malfoy gazed at her warily, and she squirmed.

"You said the other night… that you have a collection of dark magic books at Malfoy Manor. I want to see them."

He cocked his eyebrow at her. "Excuse me?'

"It's an even trade. You get to see the Ministry archives at any time you please – for a certain period of time," she added hastily. "And in return, you show me what you have."

"Ah. I'll show you mine if you show me yours." He smirked at her, his gaze calculating.

"… Something like that. Do we have a deal?" She held out her hand timidly, thinking it was a stupid Muggle gesture, but needing the reassurance.

"Done."

His skin was cool, and his shake firm, but Hermione almost jumped away when a tingle of electricity jolted her all the way up her arm and down to her spine. Malfoy gave no sign of feeling anything similar and Hermione dropped his hand quickly, as if she'd been burned. She absently rubbed her palm against her jeans, not missing the look of derision that crossed his face when he caught her.

Clearing her throat, she turned to leave.

"I'll let you know when we can go to visit the Manor."

Nodding curtly once, Hermione left his study, uncertainty etched over her face.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

**A/N: **I think this is my shortest chapter yet. I struggled with this one to write also, but thankfully Chapters 8 and 9 weren't so bad - they basically flowed from my fingertips (_really_ bad when I've got so many uni assignments to do). Anyway, please R&R, I'd love to hear your thoughts on how I can improve :)


	8. Outed

**Disclaimer:** Not a thing, is what I own. Jo Rowling is my liege.

**A/N:** Fastest turnaround of chapters yet - I apologise if this chapter has grammar and spelling mistakes (I still need a beta!) and I wanted to post it as soon as possible.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

**Chapter 8 - Outed**

The first time Hermione had fallen in love, she'd been at the tender, unassuming age of four.

As curious as a cat, and like any other magical four year old, she'd somehow _Alohomora_'d her way out of her playpen and had half walked, half stumbled past her babysitter. Annie, a twenty year old university student needing the hours to pay for rent, had been slumped on the sofa, asleep, with the latest episode of _'Allo! 'Allo!_ blaring on the telly.

Four-year-old Hermione headed to what she considered her Wonderland – her father's study. Duke's special scent of forests and cinnamon was especially strong in his study and Hermione loved to lie on the leather chesterfield that was beside the only window in the room. She'd simply lie and breathe deeply. More than once, her father would come home from work and find his daughter curled up cat-like in one corner of the chesterfield.

It was on this particular night that Hermione found her usual spot on her feather's leather sofa was occupied. Hermione spied a plain brown wrapped parcel, small and innocent looking, and she picked it up, dying to know what was inside. She was sure it was for her as her father regularly left sweets sitting on the chesterfield for her.

Hermione ripped the brown paper away gleefully, stopping short when she pulled out a small hardcover book from the wrappings.

Even if one doesn't believe in love at first sight, it was undeniable in that instant.

Hermione was mesmerized by it's ragged page edges, the musky smell of it, the sound that came from the book when she thumped the cover, flat-palmed. She's just recently started to read at the preschool she'd been attending, but _this_ looked a lot more grown-up than the silly picture books she'd been given.

It hadn't actually been meant for her but for one of her distant uncles who was a book collector. Seeing that the yellowing book had enthralled his daughter, Duke had apologised profusely to his cousin, feigning that he wasn't able to acquire the book after all.

That very book that Hermione had found when she was four still sits on her bookshelf in her flat, well-worn, well read and torn in many places.

So one must be able to understand, after retelling that story, exactly how Hermione reacted when she stepped foot into Malfoy Manor's library.

In short, her heart had stopped and missed two beats.

She stood frozen in the doorway; jaw hanging slack and eyes wide as she stared in wonderment. She was sure she'd let out a strangled squeak, but she couldn't even gather the wits to be embarrassed.

From its gleaming white marble floor to the gorgeously latticed skylight, the library measured about sixty feet of pure grandeur. The walls were lined with oceans and oceans of books, neatly stacked and meticulously organized.

Hermione was glad they'd come during the night because the stars twinkled down impishly at them through the glass ceiling. She had to fight for breath when her chest began to ache.

"Granger," Malfoy called, his voice echoing. "Stop gawking."

Hermione swallowed, blinked, and swallowed again. It took her another moment before she tore her eyes from the walls and ceiling and hunted the blond down, seeing him waiting impatiently in front of a small, black lacquered door.

Like the rest of the room, the door was ornate, bordered by a beautiful frame and coloured with gold leaf. Merlin, _everything_ in this damn library was lavish. It made the Ministry Archives look like a local book dump, or a ratty second-hand book trade store in comparison.

Hermione watched in interest as Draco muttered some spell and, like in Muggle movies, the black door clicked open and swung back slowly, revealing a dim interior. Hermione was almost hesitant to follow the blond in.

"_Lumos._"

She jumped when Draco's voice echoed her own as their wand-tips glowed with luminosity. The room was tiny, only a little larger than your average broom cupboard and Hermione was suddenly aware of how close she'd come to knocking into Draco, thinking the room would open out to something wider than this.

The tiny room, in comparison to the gorgeous library outside, was shocking. "Why is it so small here?" Hermione frowned when their elbows knocked together.

"These are volumes on Dark Magic, Granger," he sneered at her. "I thought you were the brightest witch of our age."

Ah. Right. Dark Magic _anything_ needed to be encased by protective charms so that the negative energy wouldn't leak out and affect the external environment it was placed in.

"I'm guessing there's containment wards on this room?"

Malfoy ignored her question as if she'd never asked it. "We need to stay in this room a few more minutes so the ward recognises us. Then we can open the books."

"Even you?"

He rolled his eyes at her, his blond hair gleaming in the glow of their wands. "You ask too many questions."

They waited together in the awkward silence until Hermione felt a shift in the air, as if she'd been standing with a blanket wrapped around her and invisible arms had suddenly removed it.

Feeling the change, Draco turned to her. "Take what you want, I'll be working on some things while you're here."

Hermione studied the dark spines of the books before her and began to read, her head tilted sideways so she could make out the titles in the dim lighting. She decided to start lightly, pulling several books from the dark shelving. Among the books she'd taken were _Great Artefacts, Embodying Thought, Imbued With The Dark _and _Torture: The Way It Should Be Done_.

She cringed as she felt the weight of the volumes in her arms, her chest growing cold as she hugged them to her. She (thankfully) hadn't recognised the authors of these books. She took a seat at the large oval table situated in the middle of Malfoy's library and gingerly opened _Torture: The Way It Should Be Done_.

She felt a chill wash over her body as she flicked through the pages. Hermione was grateful she was multilingual, seeing as the small book was written in Latin. She pulled her own notebook from within her purple beaded bag, a quill, inkpot and copies of other parchments she'd made from Ministry files.

She'd been searching for almost an hour with nothing to show with the fruits of her labour. Hermione puffed out her cheeks in frustration. The books were filled with general dark magic, why it was amazing, famous objects and artefacts made by dark wizards… but while Hermione was on her fourth stack of books, there still had been no mention of skin-related torture.

Unless you counted the ancient Egyptian form of torture of setting acidic dung beetles that burrowed under your skin. Or the dark spell that caused your skin to fold inside out, made even worse if inflicted to immortal beings.

Still, there was nothing about flaying as a torture method.

She glanced over at Draco who was engrossed in his work, several parchments spread out on the table. From her vantage point, it looked similar to the files Hermione regularly looked at on a day-to-day basis.

"Did you find _anything_ from these?"

His gray eyes flickered to hers momentarily before they resumed skimming the words before him. "Only a few things were of interest."

Hermione raised an eyebrow at that. "Were they of interest _to the case_? Or just… of _interest_?"

This time, Malfoy pushed the papers away and sat further back in his chair, his anger radiating from him in waves. "I don't know how much longer I'll be amused by your constant accusations."

"I wasn't accusing you," Hermione backpedalled, wishing she had just kept her mouth shut. She watched him sigh as he twirled the quill in his long nimble fingers. "What… er.. What did you end up finding?"

"I discovered something a few days ago, but it wasn't from that collection."

Hermione waited, not trusting herself to speak.

"I did some… research into Muggle history," he began, ignoring the look of surprised that flitted across Hermione's face. "The flaying."

"Yes?"

"It's connected to ancient Muggle rituals. It appears in almost all Muggle cultures." Malfoy's upper lip curled in disgust, his eyebrow raised in derision.

Hermione was struck with the thought that he continued to feel disdain towards Muggles but… not her. She wondered when that had changed.

"A Muggle couldn't have done this," Hermione frowned.

"I never said it could be a Muggle. I'm suggesting it's a wizard who has ties to Muggles, or Muggle culture."

"What culture had the biggest presence of flaying?"

"There were two. The Assyrians and the…" he pulled out a parchment from a folder and glanced down at his scribbled notes, stumbling on the pronunciation. "Aztecs?"

She was impressed he'd thought to look it up, and chastised herself that she hadn't done so earlier. She'd been too busy thinking about _who_ it could be that she'd neglected _how_ it had been done. Truthfully, the way that Goyle and Flint had been killed had sickened her to the point where she'd been happy to ignore it.

"In Aztec mythology, there was a death god, a deity of sorts. This god had slaves annually flayed as sacrifices to him."

Hermione grimaced. "Know anyone who's been to Mexico recently?" she gave him a half-hearted smile, but she felt sickened.

"No," he said dryly. "But it's another angle on the murderer's _M.O."_

"Right. So… We're looking for either a pro-Voldemort supporter or an anti-Voldemort supporter who has ties to Mexican ancient history?"

Malfoy nodded brusquely, scratching at the back of his neck. His blond hair was tied back today, she noticed, and it gave his angular face a severe touch. "That narrows it down," he muttered laconically.

Hermione huffed and stared down at her notebook, cringing when she saw she hadn't written a thing. It was an interesting bit of information that Malfoy had unearthed, but in terms of their progress, it didn't help much.

She was still in awe at the Malfoy's collection and the beautiful room that housed the books but Hermione concluded that her entire trip of going into the library at Malfoy Manor was mostly a wasted visit.

Hermione was momentarily grateful that she hadn't had a run in with Narcissa. The last time she'd seen the Malfoy matriarch, Hermione had been screaming in agony on her parlour floor.

Soon after, Hermione bid her farewell and refused his offer to walk her to the Manor's property line. There was a strange tickle at the base of her throat and she coughed slightly, sure she was coming down with a cold. Shaking her head and suddenly missing the Weasley's, she looked forward to the Weasley fortnightly lunch.

The week couldn't go by fast enough.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

That Sunday at the Burrow proved to be a godsend.

Nothing spectacular happened (unless you count Victoire accidentally eating a Canary Cream and Fleur going berserk at George) and everything was relatively normal, for a Weasley lunch, anyway.

There was just something so comforting about the Burrow that seeped deeply into Hermione's bones and soothed her tension away.

Something about family, maybe? Or maybe it was the familiar sea of bright orange hair that had smiles tugging at the corners of Hermione's mouth. Or perhaps it was Molly's out-of-this-world cooking that always had them in a state of merrymaking (this was especially true in Ron's case).

"You're a million miles away again, Hermione," said Ron, a half eaten pasty dangling from his lips.

To Hermione's surprise, she'd zoned out again during their game of Exploding Snap. She inwardly smiled at the fact that they were fully grown and still playing the games they used to back in Hogwarts.

She slung an arm around the redhead and awkwardly hugged him. "Nothing, nothing. How's the shop doing?"

"You won't believe how crazy it's been! Must be because the hols are almost over and the kids are stocking up on school supplies."

"School supplies," Harry snorted. "Right."

Hermione froze in surprise. Merlin, it was mid-August already, where had the time flown to?

"Your birthday's coming up soon, Hermione," Ginny piped up, offering a plate of biscuits to go with their tea. "Planning on anything?"

"I'm not sure, you guys. I might spend my actual birthday weekend in Port Douglas." Hermione's answer was met with a round of booing and catcalls.

"Come on, love!" Arthur said from the living room.

"You can't just _not_ celebrate," Ron said pouting.

Hermione shrugged. Of the trio, she was the oldest and it was always awkward because she'd be the 'number breaker' between them. "Twenty-three isn't exactly a monumental age, you know."

"That's what you say every year," Harry grumbled, poking her in the side.

"Tell you what, before you go to your parents, we'll fix you up something here," Molly called as she came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

"A party!"

"Food!"

"Presents!"

Hermione looked at the gaggle of redheads around her and she couldn't fight the smile that burst onto her mouth. "I love you guys," she laughed helplessly.

"Put it this way," Harry said, bopping her lightly on the head with his handful of cards. "Two more years and you'll be a quarter of a century!"

Gasping at that, Hermione tackled her best friend from the couch as everyone laughed on. Covered in biscuit crumbs and rolling around on the rug in the Burrow's living room, Hermione could believe that she was in a different place, a different time.

She could see the tense smiles that were on Harry's own face that he felt it too.

When she was in the Burrow, among loved ones, Hermione could almost believe that she held no responsibility. That people's lives weren't hanging in the balance on her time.

That two people were dead, and she was happily munching on pastries and biscuits at a family luncheon on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

Determined not to get sucked in by the misery, Hermione pushed the investigation to the back of her mind and willed herself to get lost in the raucous laughter around her.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

The following day after Hermione had visited Malfoy Manor, Draco did a little visiting for himself.

He sat across from Lucius, who was currently behind cell number fifty-four.

Lucius was looking… better. But the slight tilt to his pale lips and the lively glint in his eyes belied his condition and the truth – that he would be dead soon, very soon.

"How do you fare, father?"

"Well. And your mother?"

The small talk continued for most of his visit, and Draco's words were a bitter tang in his mouth. Many times he'd wanted to blurt out the questions he _really_ wanted to ask. Such as _why_, for Merlin's sake, _why_ did the past happen as it had?

Draco gazed at his father, his heart – and yes, he did possess one – withering in his chest. He had come to the realisation when he was sixteen that, maybe, just maybe, his father wasn't the great role model he'd always believed him to be.

During the last few months during the war, Lucius had looked… crazed. Unhinged and possessed were other words that Draco thought described his father well.

Draco absently thought of a different alternate reality, where Severus Snape was his father instead of the pathetic excuse of a man before him. Hips mouth tightened into a grim line as a tidal wave of 'what ifs' and 'if onlys' drowned his senses and he struggled to breathe.

He'd once buried himself in such fantasies during and after the war. Draco wouldn't ever deny it but Severus Snape was… a wonderful man, someone to look up to and admire. He'd been steadfast in his ambition, was steely of mind enough to defy the Dark Lord and was loyal to the end. He would violently defend the name of his old potions master to anyone who would dare to speak ill of him in his presence.

Still, no matter the past, Lucius was his father – the only father he would ever get, and Draco wasn't the kind of pansy who would moan and wail over his lot in life.

Miles away from the man he once was, Lucius was just a shell.

Draco knew his mother visited often, and he'd sneakily manoeuvred it so that he was never available when Narcissa came to Azkaban. As much as he loved her, seeing her with the man she loved would tear Draco apart.

And he'd had to be strong. He was the head of the family now; the wards bent to his will, the House Elves answered to his call and the Malfoy ring sat upon the ring finger of his right hand proudly.

"Father," he ventured bravely. "Did you ever get any… strange packages before you were imprisoned?"

Lucius cocked his head to the side, his twisted oily pale hair swinging with the movement. "Packages of what nature, son?"

Draco thought for a moment. "Packages that were threatening. Or intended to send a message."

Lucius frowned, scratching at his matted beard with grubby fingers. "Plenty."

Draco waited with baited breath.

"Many were from Death Eaters, wanting to move illicit merchandise due to the Ministry's hounds. I believe we still have some of those… packages at the Manor, considering many of them are now dead."

"What about packages aimed as messages?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, son."

Draco peered at his father, tasting the truth in his frank words and seeing the sincerity in his father's dim gray eyes. He dropped his line of questioning, inwardly sighing. Draco had truly hoped his father would be able to shed some light on the situation.

If Lucius had any inkling of the case, it would prove that it wasn't about Draco at all. Draco had held the hope that perhaps the packages were aimed at the Malfoy _family_, rather than him individually. His father's denial of any involvement quashed that theory, however, and Draco was back at square one.

A prison guard approached, informing him his visitation time was over. Frustrated and angrier than ever, Draco left shortly after.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"They know."

Hermione raised her head at the furious tone in Malfoy's voice as he entered the case room, Harry in tow. Malfoy was fuming, but Harry on the other hand just looked tired.

She put her quill down and pushed her notebook aside, catching that morning's Daily Prophet as it slid towards her, propelled by the infuriated flick of Malfoy's hand.

"Who kno—" Hermione gasped when the stark headline blared at her from the table.

_**Ministry Cover Up: Potter's Work Still Unfinished?**_

_By Paige Lee Price_

_It seems our Ministry is falling into bad habits, once more. Two and a half months ago, the wizarding world celebrated the successful apprehension of Rabastan Lestrange. But as new evidence comes to light, the recent deaths of Gregory Goyle and Marcus Flint have led the Prophet to believe that the Ministry aims to cut off all Dark Wizardry at the roots._

_The two recently deceased wizards were shamelessly connected to the Dark Arts and He Who Must Not Be Named during the war. Could it be that their quiet 'normal lives' post-war was just a front for more sinister activities?_

_When questioned, head of the Auror department and war hero Harry Potter (The Boy Who Lived) stated that the Ministry was handling the situation and could add no further comment._

_So, why has it taken so long for official statements from our darling Minister of Magic?_

Heart pounding, Hermione skimmed the rest of the article which was thankfully on page three. Merlin knows how much worse it would be perceived had it received the front page.

"How did the Prophet find out?" she asked, lowering the newspaper.

"Goyle's mother," Malfoy spat. "That bitch went straight to the press after she was released from St. Mungo's."

"I think that's the only reason why the Prophet's gone easy with the article," Harry said. "The fact that she was just freshly discharged from St. Mungo's questions her credibility."

Hermione's eyes flicked back to the article and she paused in thought. "This says nothing about you, Malfoy."

"That doesn't fucking _matter_, Granger." He began to pace. "The murders are out. Sooner or later they're going to connect it to me."

"Shacklebolt gave me a flogging this morning, too," Harry piped up, removing his glasses and kneading his temples. "Threatened to demote me."

"What!" Hermione was shocked, what would her involvement in the case mean for her?

"Don't worry, he didn't end up doing it but he's written it in my employment file. Anyway, none of that matters, Shacklebolt's in on the case now."

Hermione chewed on her bottom lip, thoughts a jumble.

"I – Merlin's sake, they're portraying the killer as a hero!" Aghast and incensed, Hermione flipped the paper away from her in disgust.

Hermione watched as Malfoy's jaw clenched and she strengthened her resolve.

"Shacklebolt's asked to have a meeting with us," Harry said wearily. "Tonight."

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

They sat in individual chairs, Hermione in the middle, in front of Minister Shacklebolt's desk. Hermione smiled inwardly at the size of the Minister's writing table. She'd always thought that the higher up you were, the larger your desk, and since Shacklebolt was the apex of their world's pyramid, his table was _huge._

The tiny smile that had appeared on her mouth was gone in an instant when Shacklebolt raised his head from their summarised case notes, his gaze steely, and a dark fire brimming in their depths.

"Mr. Malfoy, you've already expressed to me the reason you felt this should be kept quiet, and I agree, but not for the same reasons."

"What would those reasons be, Minister?" Malfoy asked stiffly, his lips barely moving.

"I am the Minister of Magic, Mr. Malfoy," Shacklebolt said steadily, his voice resonating. "I must protect the interests of our people, and these murders will only inspire fear and panic once more, much like the days of Voldemort."

Hermione didn't miss Malfoy's subtle flinch and inwardly cringed at how serious their situation was.

"We have a vigilante on our hands," Shacklebolt continued.

"Flint and Goyle were pardoned after the war, Minister," Malfoy spoke, his tone even, trying to hide the derision of being in the Minister's presence. "The author of the article twisted it."

Hermione turned to look at Malfoy and noted the way he sat rigidly in his chair. It seemed that the blond still did not trust the Ministry of Magic, let alone the Minister himself.

"Entertainment factor," Shacklebolt intoned, his deep voice resonating around them. "As is the way with the media, Mr. Malfoy, there is nothing that will stop them doing what they do best."

The author of the article, Paige Lee Price, was currently the Prophet's leading reporter. Disgustingly enough, Price was Rita Skeeter's protégé. Hermione cursed at the misfortune. Had the author been Skeeter herself, she could have given that scarlet woman a visit.

She remembered her threats to the bespectacled woman after the Triwizard Tournament with glee. Unfortunately, she had no such leverage over Price, which made things a little trickier.

"Can't we do anything about it, Kingsley?" Hermione twisted her wand in her hands, frustrated beyond belief. She knew, better than most, of the power of the media and it's effects on society. "This will rile up our world, it'll be like it was directly after the war!"

"The Prophet has press rights, Miss Granger. Although there was once a time when the Ministry controlled much of what the Prophet published, I refuse to sink back into that state of censorship."

Shacklebolt eyed them all severely. "Frankly, I am not surprised that you didn't approach me, Mr. Malfoy, when this problem arose. But I _am_ heavily disappointed and was more than surprised when I discovered that_ two_ of my best department heads have been involved since the beginning and did not think to inform me."

Hermione's flushed, shame trickling down her throat. Shacklebolt had a way with people that could have you cowering in your seat in mortification, making you feel like an insolent child. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Harry was struggling to hold his head high, too.

"Thank you for your immediate co-operation, however. I have given express instructions to both the Auror and the Research and Growth departments to have both your schedules further changed to allow you to continue in this."

Hermione's head snapped up. Wait, they were getting his support? The relief she felt was palpable, but she didn't relax completely just yet. Hermione struggled to concentrate as Shacklebolt continued.

"I agree with Mr. Malfoy that this isn't just acts of random murder. I believe this is just the proverbial tip of the iceberg, and since you three have been involved since the beginning, I will allow your covert investigation to continue."

"I – thank you, Kingsley," Harry stuttered.

"Minister Shacklebolt to you, Harry." Kingsley's brown eyes twinkled and his dark skin around his mouth crinkled in mirth.

Harry and Hermione fought to hide their smiles. It reminded them of their time working with the Minister in the Order of the Phoenix during the war; the support and steadfast charisma of Kingsley had always been comforting. To know that he was behind them in their case, and not flogging them mercilessly, was a huge relief.

"I want weekly reports on your progress on my desk. To be honest, I wouldn't want any other people working on this case than you three."

"… even me?" Malfoy's voice was quiet, hesitant.

"Even you, Mr. Malfoy. Things change, and I truly believe you will use all your characteristics as a businessman to make sure people will aide you in any way you can. I've been following you, you know," Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow at the blond.

The blond pursed his lips and blinked at Shacklebolt's words. Hermione was sure that his body language translated to a blush or at least a nod of gratitude.

Hermione watched Malfoy from the corner of her eye and noticed that he fiddled with the large ring on his right hand, the one with the Malfoy crest.

"You have my full support," Kingsley continued, standing to conclude the meeting. "If you need anything pertaining to the case, Floo me directly and I will do my best."

Nodding happily, Hermione ditched all official titles and launched herself around Kingsley's table and hugged the portly man warmly. Kingsley smiled, patting her awkwardly on the back.

Nodding their thanks, the three of them left Shacklebolt's office.

"Somehow, even having his support doesn't soothe me at all," Malfoy muttered as they strode quickly through the darkened hallways of the Ministry.

"You underestimate him," Hermione defended. "If Kingsley can help, he will."

"But we come back to the problem we had before we received Goyle's remains," Harry slowed to a stop as they approached the elevators. "We've been investigating so hard, but we've come up with dead ends yet _again_."

"We've got to be strong, Harry. We've got to try harder," Hermione grabbed at her best friend's hand and squeezed. "More people will die and it's up to us to stop it."

Harry, far too sensitive to the responsibility of peoples' lives on his shoulders, pulled Hermione into a hug.

Malfoy watched the intimate exchange with hooded eyes, fighting the urge to roll his eyes and bark at them to stop being so sentimental. But he didn't. He could understand why the other two felt the way they did, and he was only slightly disturbed that he didn't feel quite the same way.

Sure, Flint and Goyle were his _mates_, their bodies – remains – were being sent to _him_. But Draco knew that he was stronger than any of this, and he would remain stoic to the end.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Elsewhere in wizarding Britain, the same article written by Paige Lee Price was being read in the dim firelight of a seedy wizarding pub deep in Bristol. The hooded figure, seated in a conspicuously inconspicuous corner, was oblivious to the ruckus of the taproom and was reading the newspaper in silence.

Once finished, a wand was produced from within the folds of the dark cloak, a cruel smile appearing as the wand tip was set to the article and it began to burn.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

**A/N:** So. What do you guys think so far? I've actually dropped a few hints already on who the culprit might be. Is anyone game on taking any guesses? :D

Hope you guys enjoyed that chapter, please R&R!


End file.
